


The Spellmaker

by SonnyGietzel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark!Harry, Latin, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Not Canon Compliant, warfare, will be a long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:06:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnyGietzel/pseuds/SonnyGietzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Latin; a dead language with no practical applications except perhaps the deciphering of old texts and as a particularly quaint party trick. </p><p>Thankfully, as Harry finds out, Latin is not as dead as he was first taught when he decided to learn the language. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, of course; he loved Latin, and would have been proud to know it even had it been as useless as it was pretty.  But in the world of Wizards, the world of Magic, Harry realizes his rare talent with words is particularly valuable in the highly complicated and controversial subject of Spell Creation, a subject he soon becomes enamored with despite having to hide his interest from everyone. </p><p>Besides, it's not like he's going Dark, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Principium

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is my first story, I hope you like it! If you have any questions, or suggestions, do leave a comment.  
> I might still change the warnings, as the story goes along, so watch out for those.  
> I'm also very sorry for delays between chapter posts. I'll try not to make them interminable, but sometimes life just gets in the way of writing; keep hope up, I won't abandon the story!

 

When Harry Potter was 4, he discovered a new world. This world was only a few streets away from Number 4, Privet Drive, where he and his relatives lived in relative peace. It was next to the grocery shop Aunt Petunia liked to go to twice a week, at 9 am, to make purchases for her home, and Harry had taken to being dragged along with her. With Uncle Vernon at work, and Dudley at Boxing Summer Camp, there was no one at home to leave Harry with. Therefore, he was dragged behind his aunt and made to stand outside in the sweltering heat which seemed to permeate into his head from the vaguely cloudy sky above and into the soles of his feet from the cement below.

The first day of this arrangement, Harry merely stood outside the shop for the three hours it took Petunia to gather her truck-load worthy amount of food, enough to feed five elephants or the two male Dursleys. He nearly fainted from the heat, and was allowed, in a rare show of mercy from his aunt, to skip his afternoon chores and collapse into bed after drinking a glass of water.

Summer without Dudley was at once better and worse than any summer previous. On one hand, Dudley wasn’t there to make Harry miserable with derogatory insults and increasingly sharper blows that Harry was learning through experience to escape and avoid. On the other, his Aunt and Uncle treated him like he was invisible and untouchable, barely a wisp unless he somehow displeased them. He did chores, ate, did more chores, slept, repeat. Every day, repeat, and Harry felt more and more that perhaps one day he would dissolve into the misty English air and no one would notice.

The second day of this arrangement, Petunia ushered Harry to the shop and told him that he should go out and find a patch of shade to stand under.

“I will not have you fainting on me while I am taking care of the groceries. Image what people would say!”

He was, of course, not to touch anything, not to speak to anyone and, most of all, not to get into trouble. He could go anywhere as long as he was back in front of the shop by the time Petunia came back out. He couldn’t go on along with her, because people inside _knew her_. She couldn’t be seen with him, of course. Harry nodded, and trotted off to the other side of the street, where a large building loomed with a great expanse of shadow on the steps leading inside it. He sat there and prepared to wait.

About 10 minutes later, he felt a tap on his shoulder, and he jumped slightly, turning to see a young woman standing above him.

“What are you doing here, little boy? Are you lost?”

Harry shook his head, then bit his lip. He didn’t want to break his aunt’s rule of not speaking, but thought that it was more important not to get into trouble.

“I’m waiting for my aunt. She’s buying groceries, and told me to stay out of trouble.”

The woman smiled down at him. “Well, why don’t you come on inside? It’s cooler there, and you can read something if you like.”

Harry smiled, then the smile slipped off. “I’m not allowed to read. Aunt Petunia says only stupid people like reading.”

The woman frowned, and Harry feared he’d upset her, his eyes growing wide.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” the woman said, fiercely. Harry shrunk back, fearing her anger. Her face softened as she saw him recoil. “Not you, sweetheart. Your aunt. Books are wonderful. They open up new universes for you, all the information you could ever want, at the tip of your fingers.” Her eyes had glazed over and she seemed to be staring off into the sky. She then looked back at Harry. “What’s your name, dear?”

Harry hesitated, then decided saying his name didn’t go against any of Petunia’s rules he wasn’t already breaking. “Harry.”

“Well, Harry, do you like reading?”

Harry nodded hesitantly. Initially he’d read as much of Dudley’s books as he could, learning to read himself by sitting on the other side of the door when Petunia tried to teach her son. Although Harry wasn’t there with them, Dudley was so stubborn in his desire not to learn that Petunia had to teach each lesson over and over, slower and slower until he got it by sheer amount of repetition, and Harry was easily able to catch up and begin reading on his own after a few months. His aunt and uncle never bothered to teach him, and yet they never questioned his ability to be able to read. He suspected this was more because they’d never really noticed he could and he had decided, in a split moment of certainty, that this was one ability that was perhaps better they should never discover of him until he went to school and could claim came from there.

As such, he’d taken to taking any of the books he could find into his cupboard, and reading there. No one noticed the missing books, because no one bothered to look for them. He didn’t understand many of the words, but as he read more and more he began to understand some of them through context. At the moment he was half-way through Shakespeare’s _The Merchant of Venice._ He’d been working on the book for the past few weeks, but the Old English was at once harder and more entertaining to attempt to decipher. Unfortunately for Harry, given the dislike the Dursleys felt for books, the only ones they owned where either for teaching, as with Dudley, or for show, such as the complete works of Shakespeare. They owned many cooking books, thankfully, and those served to at least partly bridge the gap between the two extremes. Harry, obviously, still only at best understood half of what he read but it was enough to get the gist of what was happening. He hadn’t any idea about how complex the book he was reading were, for he knew of no other books. Therefore, he didn’t feel discouraged as he traipsed through, only decided to eventually understand it all.

“How long until your aunt needs you back?”

“Three hours, ma’am.”

The woman smiled thinly, clearly displeased at the notion that Harry’s aunt would leave such a young boy alone for that amount of time. “Well, then, Harry, why don’t you come inside? You can grab any book you like, and read until you have to go.”

Harry’s eyes widened, surprised at her offer. No one had ever said anything like that to him, had made it appear like they actually _wanted_ him around. Usually he was either ignored or told to go someplace else.

“Really?” he said. She smiled.

“Really really.”

She took his hand and led him inside the building, and Harry could see that above the door the letters read, ‘Library’.

The air inside was indeed cooler than outside, but what struck Harry was the sheer quiet of the place. He was accustomed to the usual hustle and bustle from the town and the vague sense of people needing to be places and seeing things that usually came along with being on the streets. In the house there was always the sound of a TV on or, when Dudley was home, of screaming and the constant thrum of his waddling about the house. Vernon could often be heard either laughing or speaking thunderously, and although Petunia was quieter she was still often muttering under her breath.

Harry absorbed the clear smell of the Library, decided he liked it, and smiled. He turned to the woman, feeling excited about the future for the first time since he could remember.

She smiled down at him. “My name is Sandra Smith. You may call me Sandy. What kind of books do you like, Harry?”

“I’m half-way through _The Merchant of Venice_. It’s by a man called Sh…Shake…”

“Shakespeare?” she finished for him, he brow furrowed and her voice light with disbelief. “You’re reading Shakespeare?” She then smiled lightly at him. “It’s okay, Harry. I mean, what are you _actually_ reading?”

Harry frowned at her, not understanding her question. He _was_ reading the book…unless reading involved doing something else? Maybe he’d misunderstood what reading meant?

“I…I am. I mean. I am?” he said, unsure. She sighed, thinking that the boy had heard of Shakespeare and was trying to sound smarter than he was by claiming to read some of it. She’d met some kids who did that, although to his credit they weren’t 4, and didn’t try to claim Shakespeare.

“Well, then, what’s the plot?” she asked. If she was to help the boy she’d rather give him something he’d actually enjoy, rather than something he’d try to read only to feel upset when he failed.

“What’s a plot?” Harry asked. He’d never seen or heard that word before.

“I mean, what’s the story about?”

Harry understood then that she was testing him. He still wasn’t sure why she was doing that, except that she obviously thought he was lying.

“Well, I’m only halfway through…” he said, softly, looking at his feet. Sandy smiled and crouched down.

“It’s okay. Just tell me up until what you know.” Sandy knew that calling children a liar to their faces was never the way to go. It was better to have the children admit their faults and then help them get through them.

“Okay then. There’s a man, a merchant. He’s called Antonio.” Harry’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember the words he’d read, the proper terms to recount the…plot. “He has a friend called Bass…Bassanio? I think? He needs money for a girl, but Antonio has no money, I didn’t really understand why. And there’s another guy called Shylock, who lends money, although he’s not very good at it. He’s a Jew.” Here Harry paused. “What does ‘Jew’ mean?”

Sandy had gone quiet and her face was blank, but she hurried to answer him. “It means that you believe in the God of Israel. Originally, they speak Hebrew.”

“What’s Hebrew? And why do Antonio and Shylock hate each other so much?”

“Hebrew is an old language, like Latin, although Latin is dead. As for Shylock…that’s rather complicated. Lots of years of hatred between Christians, those who believe in the New Testament, and Christ, and Jews, who believe in the Old Testament, and that the Prophet has yet to come.”

Harry was lost half-way between her explanation, but he gathered enough to understand that Shylock and Antonio’s rivalry would not easily be resolved, if at all.

“What do you mean, Latin is dead? How can a language die?”

Sandy smiled ruefully. “I mean, no one speaks it anymore. Those that know it only do for scholarly purposes, such as deciphering old texts. It’s a real pity, too. It’s a very beautiful language, and is the mother of many modern languages. Triste est quia mortuus est _._ ”

Harry’s eyes widened at her words. For some reason, they sent a shiver down his spine, and he felt suddenly that this language, that beautiful sound that had flowed from Sandy’s mouth, was something he had to learn for himself. He felt it from somewhere deep inside and, with the same determination that he’d used to plow through Shakespeare, he knew that this dead language, Latin, was one he had to know.

“Triste est quia mortuus est,” he repeated, haltingly. He winced at his pronunciation, knowing instinctively that it was awful, and vowed to correct it. The taste of the words in his mouth was like nothing he’d ever felt before, though, a pleasure unequalled by any food he’d ever eaten and only vague approached by the pleasure of learning a new word. In his 4 year old mind, he’d found his ambrosia, and there was nothing better.

Sandy was looking at him with surprise.

“That was Latin. Do you speak Latin?” he asked, eyes wide and smile grand.

Sandy looked startled at how excited he suddenly looked. “Well…yes. I studied Latin in university. It’s like school for older people.”

“Will you teach me?”

Sandy’s eyes grew incredibly wide before she laughed. “Oh, Harry. Latin is a very difficult language, more so because no one speaks it anymore. There’s no real reason to learn it, really, just for deciphering old texts or as a particularly quaint party trick. It’s not just something you can learn in a day, it takes many months, maybe even years to learn properly.”

Harry nodded vigorously. Her words did not deter him; if there was one thing Harry had, it was time. Besides, he saw the entire process not as a fault, but a gain. He loved learning new words; learning English, a process he considered still ongoing, was already interesting enough, despite how terrible Aunt Petunia was at teaching, and Dudley at learning. Harry learned.

“Triste est quia mortuus est,” he said, once again, more sure this time. His mouth broke into a grin. He loved the sound! “Please, Sandy, ma’am. Please, I’ll do anything!”

Sandy, despite her misgivings and feeling sure that Harry would give up within the week, nonetheless felt she must allow the child to reach his limits himself. She smiled. After all, he had been reading Shakespeare! As ridiculous as it may seem, he clearly knew the plot, and from what he’d said about his aunt Sandy doubted the woman had been the one to read it to him. A thought suddenly hit her.

“Harry, where are you parents?”

Harry shrunk into himself. “They’re dead. They died when I was 1, in a car crash.”

Then he looked up at her with eyes filled with hope and joy. “Please, please. Will you teach me Latin?”

And Sandy couldn’t say no. She was torn between the shocking news of this child’s parents and the sheer childish glee at such a ridiculous notion as learning Latin. She nodded, and watched in amazement as Harry smiled beatifically at her.

“Thank you, thank you so much!”

Sandy smiled again. She almost felt like she was betraying him, as she led him over to her desk, where she kept all her books. Soon, the boy would realize that learning the language wasn’t fun at all, and he’d give up easily, and all his joy would be lost. It felt horrible, but she knew she couldn’t deny him when he looked so happy at the prospect.

She took out a book, one of the first ones given to her by her Latin teacher many years ago, which was exceedingly simple and which she felt comfortable Harry could understand on his own. She then took him to sit with her at one of the tables near her desk. As the librarian, she was still at work, and so would eventually need to actually do something. While there was nothing else to do, she’d help Harry. If nothing else, it was rather more entertaining than sitting at her desk working on her thesis. There was, however, enough work to keep her occupied throughout the day, so she couldn’t simply sit down and teach Harry herself, though she might want to.

Little Harry was practically vibrating in his chair as she opened up _Latin for Beginners_. As a technical book, the entire first section was devoted to understanding the basic grammatical and syntactic rules of Latin, and giving a background on the language. She turned the book towards Harry, who immediately leaned forwards and began to look.

“Do you want me to read it to you?” she asked. Harry looked up at her.

“You don’t need to. You have chores, right?” She nodded, faintly amused at his word choice. “I can read through this on my own. Thank you very much for the book, it looks wonderful.”

Sandy didn’t know if she’d call it that, but nodded as she stood. “Call me if you need clarification with anything. I’ll be sitting right over there.” She pointed to her desk. “If you want, you can look at any other books too.”

Harry nodded, smiled again, and then pulled the book closer to him and began to read. Sandy watched with fascination as his eyes moved from side to side at an astounding speed for a 4-year-old, although she could feel that every once in a while he would trip over a word. She then went and got Harry a dictionary.

“it’s for when you don’t know what a word means,” she said, when Harry looked at her questioningly. She showed him how to use it, and when she was done Harry looked like he might hug the dictionary.

“That is the greatest book I’ve ever seen!” He exclaimed in fascination, and Sandy wondered what kind of small little boy Harry was that he was excited by a dictionary.

She left Harry to his own devices, wondering when he would come up to her. She soon became absorbed in her own work, and time flew past the two of them.

A while later, Sandy glanced at her watch and saw that it was 11:50. She looked up, amazed to still see Harry crouched over the Latin text, with the dictionary open haphazardly next to him. She stood and came up next to him, tapping his shoulder. Harry took a moment to react, looking up at her slowly, as it dragging his mind out from the book.

“Harry, it’s 10 to 12. Your aunt will be looking for you soon.”

Harry once again took a moment to react, then set down the Latin text reverently, gazing at it as one might a beloved friend. He then gathered the dictionary close, and looked up at Sandy haltingly, hesitantly. She smiled softly at him.

“What is it, dear?”

“Sandy, do you…do you think I could borrow this book?” He must have recognized Sandy’s expression of shock, for he quickly elaborated. “It’s just, it has so many words in it! And it’s so long, and I could use it to better read _The Merchant of Venice_ , and all the other books with words I don’t know, and the Dursleys don’t have one, and it’s so wonderful, and it explains everything so well and I loved reading it and…”

“Harry,” she interrupted him softly. “It’s alright, you may have it. I have many dictionaries, one less will not many any difference. Besides, few people use them. I gift it to you so that you may continue to read and love reading.”

Harry’s eyes had widened comically as she spoke. Then he smiled grandly. “I…thank you. Thank you so much! I mean…you don’t have to…I can just return it in a few days…I don’t…” he seemed to trip on his words. He clearly wished to own the book, but didn’t want to seem like he wanted to. Sandy placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, Harry. A gift from me to you. Of course, you can still come here whenever you want. I can’t give you the Latin text, but you can read it here as often as you wish.”

Harry nodded, and it looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.” He then stood. “I have to go. But thank you. I will be back this Saturday. I will be coming here Wednesdays and Saturdays. Is that alright?”

Sandy walked him to the door. “That’s perfectly alright, sweetheart.” He nodded, smiling, then walked out the door, down the steps and over to stand in front of the grocery shop. Sandy watched him with curiosity as, when he reached the other side, he quickly slipped the dictionary under his large shirt. She wondered if this had to do with his aunt saying that only stupid people read, and shook her head in disgust at the fact that some people believed that, more so that Harry, that wonderful boy, had to live with people like that.

A woman stepped out of the shop a minute later, turning to Harry and saying something sharply. Sandy knew this must be his aunt, and watched them hurrying down the street to disappear a few moments later.

She hoped Harry would be back. She’d never met a little boy like him, and wondered that she ever would again.


	2. Periculum

“Sandy! Sandy!”

Sandra Smith, better known as Sandy, looked up from her book. She smiled as a thin boy with raven black hair came running up to her, clutching a large book to his chest. Her smile dimmed slightly as she saw slight discolorations around his eyes and on his arms; she knew the boy was not treated well at home, and for a while now had tried to help him in any way she could. The boy, Harry, refused any attempt she made at speaking with his relatives, and instead recounted only how his life was not all bad and how he had much to be thankful for.

“I could be getting beaten, or being starved,” he’d say, shrugging his bony shoulders, which could not be hidden fully under the large sweater he always seemed to be wearing. He looked healthier than he had when Sandy had first seen him, almost 6 years ago, a tiny child begging her to teach him Latin. He no longer looked malnourished and strangely small for his age; he’d grown taller and had filled out lightly, although he was still very thin.

Now he dropped in front of her his latest conquest, a copy of Cicero’s _De_ _Finibus_ in the original Latin. Sandy had found it for him after he’d requested it of her, having finished reading _Brutus._ She marveled once again at his ability to devour so easily books which she herself, and many scholars she knew, had trouble going through, and none with as much enthusiasm or interest as Harry demonstrated.

“How did you like it?” she asked, putting the book away behind her desk. Harry smiled, jumping from foot to foot excitedly.

“It was very interesting. Cicero is a marvelous author, obviously, but the way he _mutat…_ sorry, I mean, shifts between his own philosophical stand point and that which he considers to belong to the _populus_ …sorry, people! I just finished reading it right now; my mind is still half in Latin.” He laughed softly, and Sandy laughed along with him, admiring this bilingual child who was caught between such strange tongues.

He suddenly looked furtive. “Sandy,” he said softly, and she peered at him worriedly. He walked over to the other side of the desk, next to her, so they could speak more privately.

“I’ve been working on _it_ , Sandy. I can now control it a lot better.” He grinned. “Look, look! _Ignis!”_

On his spread hand a small ball of fire suddenly appeared, caught between his fingers and emitting a soft glow. Sandy’s eyes widened and she glanced around to make sure no one was looking before turning back to Harry. Wonderful, strange, ethereal Harry.

“That’s amazing Harry,” she said, softly. She felt unease grow inside her, twisting before she pushed it back again. Harry’s grin stretched.

“And look at this! _Draco Ignis!”_

The ball of fire suddenly stretched and morphed, growing longer and suddenly spiraling around his hand. Sandy recoiled slightly, fearful that her clothes might catch fire, as what was now clearly a dragon made out of fire moved around on Harry’s hand. Harry giggled, then suddenly bit his lip as the fire collapsed into his hand and snuffed out. He pouted.

“I can’t hold it for too long, though,” he said sadly. Then he looked up at Sandy. “Isn’t it cool, though?”

“Very cool,” she said, trying not to show in her voice the concern she could feel growing over the past months. Ever since Harry had begun being able to perform this magic – for there was no other word for it – she had felt more and more that something great was about to happen. She hadn’t told anyone. No one would believe her, first of all, but more than that she felt that if anyone should be made aware then Harry himself was who should decide it. She worried that if anyone found out, he might be made into a government experiment, or tortured for his power. She feared for little, innocent, brilliant Harry, and his fascinating power.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, looking back down at Harry who looked up at her with worry. She smiled.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. Just thinking about my paper, I have to turn it in by tomorrow.” It wasn’t a complete lie, she really did have a paper for tomorrow, and Harry knew enough about her work load to accept the excuse without question. He was such a good boy. She patted his arm gingerly, careful not to press on any bruises. She felt her anger at the boy’s relatives flare once again. Obviously, who caused the bruises was his cousin. Harry never denied it, which from a boy as taciturn and unwilling to point fingers as Harry was, was practically an admission of guilt.

“Have you got me the _Satyricon_?” Harry asked, his face shining with excitement. “I’ve wanted to read that book for ages!”

Sandy chuckled. “Not yet, Harry, sorry. I’m getting the book in about a week, yet. I’ve got Dante’s Divine Comedy, though, if you want to go for that.”

Harry smiled. “Oh yes, please!  I’ve wanted to read that one, too. _Vexilla regis prodeunt inferni._ ”

Sandy’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?” she asked as she dug out the copy of the Comedy and placed it on her desk. She reached out for Harry’s library card.

“It’s from _Inferno_ , that’s the first section of the Divine Comedy. It’s one of the more famous lines. It means ‘Forth go the banners of the king of hell’.”

She felt a shiver go through her at his words. “That sounds rather like a bad omen, doesn’t it?”

“ _Absit omen_ ,” Harry said, giving her his card. She swiped it, before giving it back to him, along with the book. He took it and hugged it to his chest, smiling. She smiled back. It made her happy to know that at least she could help in this; he looked so very happy with a book in his hands, like no one she’d ever met. She hoped he would retain this love even as he grew.

“I’ve got to go, now,” Harry said, reluctantly. She nodded, knowing the boy was only allowed out at all because his relatives didn’t actually want to be accused to abusing the boy. Even so, it was best not to test them. He suddenly reached into his pocket and brought out a small silvery object. He held it out to her and she took it in her hands. It was a small piece of metal, and upon closer inspection she realized it was actually a small, vaguely horse-like silver figurine. It was crude, and not the best workmanship, but still quite clearly silver. She turned to Harry, who was looking at her doubtfully.

“Do you like it? It’s a gift for you.”

“It’s very nice, Harry. Thank you very much.” She said, smiling. He smiled back.

“I made it with my magic. I don’t know how, but it looked pretty and I thought you might like it,” he said. She blinked, looking back at the horse and then back at Harry, who looked as if he might be scared she would shout or otherwise hurt him. It made her sad that a boy as wonderful and special as Harry might fear something like that from anyone, especially from her, but she understood where he came from and knew it was hard to suppress instincts like that. She placed a soft hand on his shoulder.

“It’s wonderful, and very special. You are a real sweetheart, Harry.”

Harry smiled softly. “I’m glad you like it,” he said.

He then walked out the library with the Comedy clutched tightly in his arms after waving goodbye to Sandy. She watched him go fondly, if a little sadly. She wished that the boy would never grow and would never have to face the world, but knew it was a futile hope. She only hoped he would be as happy as he could be, and that her beautiful, innocent boy would not be overly hurt by the world.

“ _Absit omen,_ ” she repeated softly, as the boy disappeared down the street.

 

* * *

 

Harry arrived at Privet Drive taking care of making nary a sound, wary of his cousin’s presence. If the _mutos ceti_ saw him with a book he might attempt to take it, and Harry would be forced to resort to more extreme measures. He climbed up into his room and sat down on his bed, placing the Divine Comedy gently in front of him; he noted faintly that tomorrow was his birthday. It didn’t much matter to him, honestly. His birthdays were never celebrated, and he often forgot about them because they were about as important to his every-day events as faraway stars. He’d never told Sandy when it was, despite her questions. He honestly saw no point in making it out to be an important event when it wasn’t.

He silently cast a spell to muffle any sounds he made, then placed a charm which would warn him to anyone approaching his room with a murmured, “ _Monere Accessus_ ”. He grabbed a few crumpled pieces of paper and, with a few muttered words, transformed them into a large, succulent apple which he took a bite out of, savoring the slightly acidic flavor.

He didn’t like lying to Sandy; she was very kind to him, and Harry had grown rather fond of her. However, he knew that she saw him as a small, innocent boy who had to be looked after, and who was to be protected from those around him. She also had strong morals; he knew she saw the bruises on his arms and felt anger towards those who would hurt him. She felt that the good people of the world ought to be protected and the bad people be punished. Obviously she would have formulated the idea in a much more long-winded and complicated manner, but that was the gist of it.

Harry had only ever shown her a tiny bit of his magic. He didn’t want to alarm her into telling anyone else of what he could do; a little bit of fireworks were harmless, and he could show off ‘progress’ to keep her thinking that he was merely playing about. However, Harry was much more proficient than he had allowed her to think.

Since his first bit of accidental magic when he was 5, Harry had practiced day in and day out on his magic, feeling through the Latin words he knew and read for those which he resonated particularly strongly with and playing with them until results came about. By now, he could cast noise-muffling spells without even having to say the words; a clear thought was enough. He’d cast the spell so often that it was by now nearly instinctive, but for most spells he still had to verbalize his thoughts in order to provide the magic with a more focused and tangible guide.

Most of the words’ effects had to do with their meaning, obviously, although Harry suspected that that had more to do with his own understanding than of the powers belonging to the words themselves. If, he wondered, he truly believed that ice and fire were the same thing, would saying _Ignis_ cause something to freeze? He’d tried to experiment with this idea, but after many failed attempts he’d come to the conclusion that he simply lacked the proper teaching method that it required.

 

* * *

 

The small metal horse was one of his first more complicated, successful transformations, from back when he was 7. His attempt to turn wood into metal took many weeks; it was a lot more difficult than a more natural change, so to speak. He could change water to ice easily, a simple _Glacio_ ; the basic make up was the same and so Harry didn’t really have to force anything, just kind of push with his magic in the right direction.

But wood to metal was harder. It took a full transformation; Harry couldn’t simply say ‘Freeze!’ He had to actually change the wood fully. He tried saying, “ _Mutare M_ _etallus!”_ but that only resulted in his magic fluttering about, feeling much like it was confused. It didn’t know how to change wood into metal, because Harry didn’t know how to do it.

Therefore, he’d gone to the library and began to browse through books on chemistry. Sandy hadn’t said much, treated it like another one of Harry’s odd interests. He’d learned the Latin names of the elements, for he felt those held both more beauty and more power; he’d learned about electron configurations and about the basis of nuclear radiation and nucleosynthesis, the two processes through which an element could be turned into another. He also learned that wood itself was composed of a large variety of elements, and that ‘metal’ was not quite as specific a term as he’d first thought.

Eventually, after feeling he had a solid grasp on the idea of nuclear transmutation, he retreated once more into turning wood into silver. He’d chosen silver, _argentum_ , because it was the metal with which he felt most comfortable with, having touched and seen it enough from polishing it at his relative’s house that he knew its texture and look by heart. Wood, he saw, was mostly comprised of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen _._ With that in mind, he then began sifting through his knowledge on the four elements and playing with the idea of separating each element into its constituent parts and then rearranging them into silver’s configuration of 47 protons, 61 neutrons and 47 electrons.

When he felt that he had the idea solidly down, he went back home and, waiting until midnight to make sure his relatives would not suddenly walk in on him attempting magic, turned to the piece of wood which he had set down on a sheet of plastic on the small desk in his room. He didn’t want to inadvertently end up turning the whole desk; his relatives knew he could perform magic, but they believed he had no control over it. He’d been given Dudley’s storage room after the event two years ago when he’d managed to lift Dudley and throw him across the room without touching him. His relatives feared him slightly after that; not enough to actually act on it, but enough that Harry was left well enough alone most of the time. He’d done it without much thought and out of an instinctive reaction of fear, chanting “ _Vade retro, vade retro,”_ softly under his breath as Dudley had approached him with the clear intention of causing harm to both Harry and the book he held clutched between his arms. The next moment, Dudley had been thrown backwards and Harry was being ushered into Dudley’s old room. Nothing had happened to his cousin, fortunately or unfortunately depending on your source, but since then Harry had been given a decent berth and he’d started learning magic.

He was well prepared for his first proper attempt at the transformation. He had several small pieces of wood with him, all of similar size and shape, from the same tree in the backyard. He wasn’t sure what the tree was, but he figured it didn’t much matter to the elementary configuration. He first called out, quietly but firmly, “ _Silente_ _m_ _Obice_ ,” focusing on a circle around him one meter in radius. His magic snapped to attention, and he suddenly felt the sounds from around the house hush. He knew from experience that no one outside his bubble could hear him or anything else inside while his magic kept it active. At first, keeping the shield had taken a great deal of concentration, but as he used it more and more often, and as the idea of silence was not particularly hard to grasp, he eventually became proficient enough to hold it for about an hour while paying it little mind. The barrier itself kept anything from going in or out, be it energy or people; it was a security measure he always took in the case that an experiment went haywire. He’d learned his lesson when he’d first started playing with fire, literally. The barrier surrounded the desk, floor and walls, and going only a little ways behind and around Harry. He wasn’t going to risk setting the desk on fire or creating a hole on the floor or ceiling, as that might be a little hard to explain.

He then focused on himself, muttering “ _Tegmentum._ ” He felt his magic wrapping around himself as if a second skin, forming a light but very strong body armor. He’d also learned his lesson on protecting himself from his experiments. He then turned back to the wood, gathering his magic and focusing on chemistry and Latin.

“ _Iug_ _o,_ ” he said, and no sooner could he feel the magic taking effect that he was suddenly thrown backwards into his shield as a thunderous roar assaulted his ears. His last thought as he passed out was that he should have realized that the spell, as he was using it, would effectively turn out to work as a miniature nuclear bomb.

Harry waited a few days to try again. His relatives hadn’t heard anything, and Harry himself had only suffered a few bruises apart from feeling magically and physically drained, so he was confident that the precautionary spells had held for a while, at least. The piece of wood itself had vanished completely; Harry suspected his spell had worked exactly as he’d intended it to, if perhaps in a rather more showy manner than he had anticipated. The problem, he eventually concluded, was that he’d allowed the particles too much energy. He’d fed them all they needed to separate, so when the time came to join, all that extra energy – and there was a lot of it – had to go somewhere.

He had then set about thinking how he would go about merging the subatomic particles without exploding his room. He was thankful his magic had only managed to separate and incorporate a few atoms before it had retreated instinctively; otherwise he feared for the neighborhood’s safety.

Eventually, he came up with the idea of converging both the separation and the merging of the particles into a single chain reaction; in this manner, rather than Harry himself feeding the particles all the energy they needed for their separation, Harry would only prompt the first particle himself and then guide the resulting energy into the next atom. This would result in a more efficient use of energy and would hopefully mean that there would be much less energy left over from the change.

The word for the spell he eventually settled on was _Fies_ ; it was at once less specific and more dependent on his will, and Harry deemed the word appropriate for what he was attempting to do. He set up the experiment as he had last time, although now he placed a sound barrier between himself and the wood. _Tegmentum_ would protect his body from any great harm, but his eardrums were sensitive enough that he worried that a repeat of the explosion from last time might rupture them anyways.

He once again focused on the wood, this time concentrating on a seamless, mostly internal transmutation between wood and silver. When he felt confident he and his magic knew what he was doing, he spoke.

“ _Fies Argentum._ ”

He braced himself for an explosion, but nothing came. Instead, he watched in fascination as the wood slowly but surely began changing. It became harder, shinier, silvery. Eventually, the transformation finished and Harry felt his magic recede into his body. He canceled the protection spells and approached the desk, holding the silver up to the light.

It had many imperfections; it was far from a perfect piece of workmanship, and Harry thought whimsically it looked vaguely like a horse. He wondered if the many dips and pits in the metal where from the porous nature of wood, and how he might work around that. He also noted that he metal was warm, and wondered if perhaps that was excess energy from the nuclear transmutation, and if there had been any sound which he hadn’t heard. He placed the silver in one of the drawers of his desk and crawled into bed with a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

 

* * *

 

Harry glanced at the apple’s core he held in his hand.

“ _Ignis_.”

The core burst into flames. Harry himself wasn’t burnt by the flame, even though he knew it would if he allowed it. It was careful control that he’d learnt over many nights nursing signed hands and which he preferred to what he felt was the more crude method of protecting his skin with _Tegmentum_ every time he wanted to set fire to something. He wasn’t yet proficient in the art of healing skin so that it would leave no scars. He’d started studying molecular biology a while back to try and understand how flesh naturally knit itself together, but he was still having trouble with perfectly correct skin. He had a designated region on his upper arm which he used to practice both his lighter cutting spells and his healing spells. Of course, any potentially harmful spell was first thoroughly tested on inanimate objects before he would dare subject his own body to any potential mishaps. He’d rather not be his own guinea pig, but he had no other live subjects on which to test his magic.

Once the apple core was fully consumed, Harry flicked away the small amount of ashes and opened up the Comedy. He had yet to manage to perform a spell to actually cause something to disappear; his mind rebelled against the idea that something could go from existing to not existing so suddenly. He’d considered trying to fully dissolve an object into energy, but decided that that was probably not a wise option, given the disaster that his initial attempt at transmutation had resulted in. Harry sighed and, deciding that the book in front of him deserved his attention, delved into the adventures of Dante Alighieri through the layers of his hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!   
> I just wanted to say I am so very happy people like this story, you are all so very kind. It makes me very happy as the author! Thank you!  
> I hope you like this chapter, any questions or comments or suggestions are always welcome.


	3. Ingressio

Harry awoke the morning of his 11th birthday with a sudden, inexplicable sense that something important was going to happen. The feeling passed as quickly as it had arrived, and Harry shook it off. He glanced at the clock on his bedside table; it was 6 am, and Harry roused himself and went down to the kitchen. In the early morning light, everything seemed subdued, a welcome change from the often hurried and hasty ambient the house usually held during the mornings.

Harry didn’t go to school; he’d only gone there for a few weeks when he was 6 and had decided that he was losing his mind and his time in the place. He’d already learned how to read and write in English, and was advancing quickly in Latin, there was no need to explain to him how Mary and the Dog liked to chase each other around a park. The math had been interesting, until he’d realized he could advance in that too much more quickly with the books Sandy could give him that in a class filled with children who really only wanted to chuck building blocks at each other.

Oh, and the other children; Harry had never been particularly social, in any sense of the word. Sandy was the only person outside his relatives that he had frequent contact with, and she was the only one who he’d approach willingly. He considered the other children simply too young to bother forming relationships with, despite being his age. He certainly didn’t feel 5, not in the way the other children did. It wasn’t that he felt they were stupid, it was simply that what interested them did not interest Harry, and what interested Harry did not interest them.

The teachers were a problem as well. The first time he’d brought one of his Latin books over, the section on Augustus from _De Vita_ _Caesarum, –_ which he’d started reading because it had a consistent format and so he could easily guess the words even if he didn’t know them– his homeroom teacher had come over and asked what he was reading. When he'd explained, she’d laughed in his face and with a simpering, condescending smile tried to take the book away from him so he would go “play with the other children. You can look at the nice, pretty book later.”

Harry had almost thrown the book at her.

He hadn’t, obviously. He respected the book too much to use it as a measly projectile. Instead, he had put it away and quietly joined a group of the children near him who were making puzzles. They were very simple puzzles, 10 pieces only, and Harry could have easily solved them all in half an hour, but he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself.

The next day he had gone up to his relatives and very calmly explained that he was not going to return to school. When Uncle Vernon exclaimed that he was not the one who decided that, Harry threatened to expose himself and his relatives through public displays of magic. Things were quickly arranged after that, with the Dursleys arranging a ‘school transfer’ and then simply leaving Harry at home all day. They didn’t trust him as far as they could throw him, obviously, but they also understood that Harry would not burn down the house he lived in and besides, there wasn’t much they could do about it either. Talk about an orphanage had been quickly shut down when Harry pointed out that he still knew where his relatives lived, and knew their names. They all avoided Harry like the plague for a few months after that, then simply treated him even more like he was invisible. Harry liked that just fine.

They still treated him like that now that he was 11. He had proven himself useful around the house, cleaning and gardening while his relatives were away. Truthfully, Harry had first begun his chores as a practical way to practice his magic. Even now, as he prepared an egg and made some toast, he was flexing his magic around the stove so that the egg would be perfectly cooked. It was a lot trickier than simply setting fire to something, or holding a flame in his hand. Here the temperature had to be kept constant and yet low enough not to burn the food; it wasn’t an exercise for his Latin, but rather his control over his magic. Harry was becoming a lot better at it, but it was a very slippery sort of grasp; his magic wanted to thrash around, and it twisted and turned like an angry snake whenever he tried to channel it into delicate matters.

He placed the slightly singed egg on a plate, then retrieved the toast from the toaster. He didn’t dare try to mess with electronic appliances too much; electricity was very hard to control and even harder to get to do exactly as he wished. He rather trusted transistors and diodes much more than he did his own ability with magic, at least in that respect.

Harry ate his breakfast leisurely as the house slowly began to wake up. He could hear the thunderous footsteps of his cousin and uncle, as well as the slighter shuffling of his aunt as they got ready for their morning routines. He finished eating and washed his plates just as they all began coming down the stairs for breakfast. Harry placed the dishes away as they all sat down and Petunia began to fix them breakfast; he was about to go back to his room to grab a book when he heard the familiar sound of letters being dropped in the mailbox.

Harry usually never minded the mail; there was never anything for him anyways, so there was no point. However, this time, he felt something odd.

Harry had been practicing with his magic so much all around the house that he had effectively saturated the place with his magical signature. It was exceedingly pure in a way magical homes rarely were; the family had no access to any other forms of magic, be it through people or foreign magical objects. As such, the sudden taint in the air felt to Harry like an invasion into what he essentially considered his territory; the sudden intrusion of a foreign magical presence.

Of course, Harry had no idea that this was what he was feeling; he’d never been exposed to other magical beings or influences, and had only ever known his own magic. As such, it was with only a feeling of wrongness that he approached the mail lying so innocently on the floor. He grabbed the letters, feeling them emanating the oddity; he flipped through them quickly, feeling with his magic until one pulsed under his hand. He let the others down where they had been and looked at the oddly formal letter in his hand with a mingling sense of hope and disbelief.

* * *

**  
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_   
_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_   
_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_   
_Deputy Headmistress_

* * *

 Harry’s first instinct, to think this was some sort of cruel joke, was almost immediately discarded. It was too elaborate for any of the Dursleys to even think about, let alone actually invest time into carrying out, and who else did Harry know? Sandy wouldn’t do something like this.

Besides, he’d been performing magic since he was 5, was it all that odd to suppose that a magical school for magical children existed? Harry thought it odd that it asked for an ‘owl’. Was that slang for a response? Or maybe they literally did mean an owl? If the former, where was Harry supposed to address the letter to? _Hogwarts_? If the latter, where was Harry supposed to get an owl from? Would any owl do?

He brought the letter up to his room and read through it a few more times before deciding the that wisest course of action was to go to the post office and ask where the letter had been sent from; it had come through there, perhaps someone would know something about it.

He walked down the stairs as his uncle was also leaving. He didn’t bother to tell him where he was going; they’d assume he was going to the library, as he often went there whenever he felt like go out. They didn’t honestly care very much; Harry knew they would be ecstatic if one day he walked out of the house and never came back. The thought would have made him sad a few years back, but by now it was simply a fact of life and Harry had grown to appreciate the freedom it granted him. It didn’t make him feel better, but he saw no point in attempting to change it. The Dursleys were a repugnant family anyways, and Harry would not have desired to be in their acquaintance at all had he a choice.

The walk to the post office took about an hour; Harry didn’t mind, he liked walking, and it gave him time to think on the best approach to ask about the letter. He constantly shrouded himself with the spell “ _Effugiat_ ”, which effectively rendered him invisible in the eyes of passerby. He didn’t want to be picked up by anyone, whether with good or bad intentions. When he reached the place Harry canceled the spell and walked up to one of the open help windows.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to the woman behind the counter. She looked vaguely surprised at the boy in front of her, but smiled kindly.

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you think you could help me? I got this letter today, but I don’t really know what to do with it.” He passed her the Hogwarts letter. He’d already taken out the list of required equipment, just in case she kept the letter itself. She looked at it and grinned.

“Oh, it’s another one of those,” she said, sounding vaguely amused and vaguely frustrated. “Every few years we get a child with one of these, and none of them know anything about it. I’ll pass you on to Fred, he always knows what to do.” She then said something into a radio and a few moments later a large man with blonde hair and a wide smile came up to them.

“Hello, Amelia. This is the boy?” he said, peering at Harry. Harry smiled shyly at the man, feeling like he was being tested somehow.

“Yes. Here’s the letter,” Amelia said, passing the Hogwarts letter to Fred, who gave it a glance and nodded. He smiled at Harry.

“Don’t worry, my boy. I’ll send them their ‘owl’ for you.” He winked, and Harry felt vaguely like he was being let on into an inside joke that he really didn’t understand. He smiled anyways.

“Thank you, sir.”

Fred turned to leave when Harry suddenly realized that if anyone could help him get a foothold in this strange situation, this man was the only open gateway available to him. He had no other clues. He called out to the man.

“Sorry, sir? Can I ask you something?”

Fred turned back to Harry and, seeing that Harry was looking around nervously, gestured them into a corner of the room so they could speak more privately.

“The thing is,” Harry said, “that I don’t know where I could possibly get my materials for the school. They seem to assume in the letter that I know everything, but…”

Fred nodded, understanding. “That’s a problem with Hogwarts, definitely. They like to pretend they are very open to Muggles, but they don’t really make much of an effort.”

Harry frowned. So, apparently, Hogwarts was real. At least according to this man, who Harry frankly had no reason to trust; however, the situation was too perfect for Harry not to at least suspect a degree of veracity to the man’s statements, so he decided he’d treat the subject seriously unless it proved ridiculous to do so any longer. “What’s a Muggle?”

“It’s a person without magic. Like just about anyone here. Most Muggles have no idea magic exists, so communication between us is limited.”

Harry nodded. “That makes sense.” He then realized something about how the man was speaking. “Sir, are you a…?”

“Wizard?” Fred shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m what you would call a Squib; born from a wizarding family but without magic.”

Harry nodded, trying not to let his expression show how sorry he felt for the man. “Sir, do you know where I could buy my books?” he softly reminded him of his original question.

“Oh, yes of course.” Fred nodded, procuring a piece of paper from his pocket and then writing something down on it. He passed it to Harry, who looked at the address written down.

“That’s the Leaky Cauldron. It’s the closest place to here from where you can get into Diagon Alley. You can find all you need there.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I’d recommend going with one of your parents to Gringotts first. Sometimes Muggleborns are given a loan by the school, but you’d have to check it out. It’s our bank, a great white building in the middle of Diagon Alley, you really can’t miss it.”

Harry nodded, thankfully. He felt no need to tell the man that he had no parents and that he would be going alone. He wondered if he had a loan; he better have, given that the Dursleys would never lend him enough to pay for what he supposed must be the cost of the schooling. He didn’t recognize the term ‘Muggleborn’, but from the context he assumed he meant a wizard born from two Muggles.

“When you get to the Leaky Cauldron,” Fred continued. “Speak to Tom, he’s the bartender. Tell him you want to go into Diagon Alley, he’ll open up the portal for you. From there you can explore everything and when you need to get back, just ask anyone for the Cauldron and they’ll help you.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you very much, sir.”

Fred clapped his shoulder before standing up. “No problem, lad. Congratulations on being accepted!”

Harry thanked him again and walked out of the post office, practically vibrating with energy and anticipation. He couldn’t wait to go to Diagon Alley and witness this world where there were other people like him, other people who could speak Latin and who could change their words into actions through their magic. It would be so beautiful.

* * *

 A few days later, Harry walked out of the house with a backpack and a few hundred pounds in his pocket which he’d over the last months managed to earn through selling a few of the things he’d made. He’d tried to make money directly, but had never succeeded in making it in such a way that it actually looked and felt like real money. He could make coins, but each one took too much of an effort for what they were each worth, so he’d eventually decided to try making money in a less direct way.

There was a shop about half an hour away which he’d approached because it looked seedy enough not to ask too many questions about a child bringing in various silver knickknacks; he’d told the owner that he’d found the various bracelets and necklaces in a garbage can near his house and wanted to sell them because, frankly, he had no need for the jewelry.

The owner had at first not wanted anything to do with it; he’d obviously assumed Harry had stolen them from somewhere, which was a perfectly valid assumption given the strangeness of a small child with so much silver. After a month of Harry insisting, and no one reporting any robberies of such silver objects, the owner reluctantly accepted the jewelry after making sure that it was indeed silver. Harry knew the amount of money he’d gotten was about half what the man would sell it for, but he didn’t particularly mind; he himself hadn’t paid anything for them, after all, and he wasn’t going to use them for anything anyways. He hadn’t gone back to the shop, not wanting to give the owner any excuse to suspect that the findings had been anything other than luck, but kept it as a backup idea in case he ever needed money again.

Finding the Leaky Cauldron was relatively easy, if an odd experience for Harry. He took a cab to Charring Cross Road, the address Fred had given him. As he stepped out in front of what appeared to be a shady pub, he noted with curiosity that no one in the street seemed to notice the place. Their eyes would move oddly from the shop to the right of the Cauldron to that of the left, without pausing in between. Harry realized that someone must have spelled the place so that it would be invisible to Muggles; he supposed it would not do to have them going in at all times to a magical place, as he’d gotten the impression that magic was a very hush-hush subject from the man in the post and from the fact that he’d never heard anything about it. He supposed spotting a dragon running loose through a park might raise a few eyebrows.

He entered through the door and took a look around the pub. There was not a large amount of people, but it was not empty either. Harry felt a tingle run through his skin and he knew, although not how, that it was his magic reacting to the magic surrounding him. He wondered if it was due to the fact that all the people around him were also wizards, or if the pub itself was magical. He wondered how he would tell, if it was possible. Perhaps people felt different than objects? The only other magical thing he’d come into contact with was the Hogwarts letter, and that had been more of a strange wrongness rather than an actual feeling. Was this place’s magic stronger? Were people more poignant? Did different people feel differently? He looked around and spotted a man standing behind the bar. He approached quietly, dodging around various tables and chairs.

“Sir?”

The man had been washing a glass, and as he spoke the man looked up and smiled kindly.

“Hello, young man. How can I help you?”

“Please, sir, I’m looking for Tom?”

The man nodded. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

Harry smiled, hoisting the bag higher onto his shoulder. “Could you please open the gateway to Diagon Alley for me?”

“Of course, lad,” Tom said, placing the glass down and then retrieving a long, thin piece of wood from behind the counter. Harry looked on curiously, as he was lead towards the back of the establishment towards a blank wall. Tom placed the wood against the rock and for a moment Harry wondered if he would turn it into a key, but Tom tapped a few bricks in a counter-clockwise order and suddenly the bricks shifted. A doorway was soon formed, and through it Harry could see many people walking down a street in various odd dress styles. He hid his surprise and smiled to Tom, thanking him before walking into what he supposed was Diagon Alley. 

The place was exquisite. Harry walked down a wide pathway littered with small pebbles and surrounded with all manner of shops; owls, cauldrons, books, clothes, food and many more things which Harry could not identify but immediately wanted to know more about. His magic was thrumming under his skin pleasantly. The people surrounding him were no less interesting than the place itself; various men and women, even a few children, walked about clothed in what Harry could only call robes. He saw a couple wearing pointed hats, but altogether it seemed to be a dying fad. He also noticed a few more people who were carrying sticks similar to Tom’s, and came to the conclusion that they must be wands; perhaps they helped wizards cast complicated spells? Or maybe it was simply a fashion accessory?

Everyone seemed to know where they were going and what they were doing, and no one paid Harry much mind, although a few glanced at his clearly Muggle clothing and backpack. Harry murmured “ _Effugiat_ ” and placed ‘getting proper clothes’ as the first thing to do if he wanted to remain inconspicuous. He wondered how much clothes cost, hoping fervently that there was at least a cheap cloth he could afford. He was drawn immediately towards the bookshop, but refrained from entering as he remembered Fred’s advice about going first to the bank, Gringotts, and kept walking forwards to the large building he could see in at the end of the street. The closer he got, the larger it looked, until he was standing at the edge of the staircase and craning his neck to see the top. He cancelled the cloaking spell, noting that upon the large entrance were the words, _Gringotts._

He entered the large brass doors which was flanked by two guards which Harry, after looking at them curiously for a moment realized were not just two really ugly, short people, but what he supposed must be _goblins_. He masked his nervousness and vague awe at these creatures which he’d only read about in books, thinking that he would probably be faced with even stranger creatures soon and besides no other wizard seemed surprised to see them there. He walked down a short pathway before coming upon another set of doors, silver this time, upon which an inscription read;

_**Enter, stranger, but take heed** _   
_**Of what awaits the sin of greed** _   
_**For those who take, but do not earn,** _   
_**Must pay most dearly in their turn.** _   
_**So if you seek beneath our floors** _   
_**A treasure that was never yours,** _   
_**Thief, you have been warned, beware** _   
_**Of finding more than treasure there.** _

Harry had to suppress a shiver as he was suddenly assaulted by an unsettling sensation of being about to pass through the doors to the entrance of Hell, but he pushed the feeling back with a reprimand to himself about unfounded superstition.

He opened the door and was faced with two large rows of goblins seated high on marble desks. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he needed to wait to be called upon or if there was any sign of who he was supposed to speak to first. After a moment of indecision, he approached one of the ones which had no one in front of them, although they seemed busy counting coins. He noted the coins were not pounds, and wondered suddenly if wizards had their own currency. The thought had not occurred to him before, and he hoped that he could at least exchagne the pounds he'd brought.

“Excuse me, sir," he said to the goblin as politely as he could. "I’m a new student going to Hogwarts, and would like to know if I have been given a loan.”

The goblin did not acknowledge him for a moment, and Harry hoped he hadn’t inadvertently offended him. Then the goblin turned towards him. For a moment it seemed like he didn’t see Harry at all, before his eyes suddenly fixed on Harry’s and he smiled faintly.

“Mr. Potter. What a pleasure to finally see you,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. It fit the strange creature, somehow. Harry nodded, wondering how on earth the goblin knew his name. Perhaps they had a spell on the door which told the teller who had come in? Before he could say anything, the goblin continued. “You have not been given a loan, Mr. Potter.”

Harry frowned. That did not sound good. “How may I apply for one?” he asked.

The goblin shifted. “You do not apply for a loan, Mr. Potter. The school provides one automatically if they see you need one.”

Harry noted that the goblin seemed amused at the idea of Harry needing a loan. “How do they know if I…never mind, magic obviously,” he muttered, and the goblin seemed even more amused. His face didn’t shift much, but Harry got the distinct feeling of laughter coming from the creature. “If the school doesn’t think I need a loan, then that means I have money, yes?” The goblin nodded. “How do I have money?”

“The bank stores all your valuables and assets, but you may remove and make use of them as you see fit, which makes them in essence your possessions,” the goblin responded. Harry blinked. That answer, while porbably perfectly truthful, had been utterly useless. He was sure the goblin was playing with him, but he felt no hostility from the creature and had no other option; besides, he did not particularly mind talking to the goblin.

“Why do I have the money?”

“You inherited it from your parents when they died.”

Harry gripped his backpack tightly. “They were rich, then. Where did they come about all this money? Did they earn it themselves?”

The goblin smiled toothily. “Some of it, yes, but most of it comes from generations upon generations of family members inheriting fortunes and then dying. You are a very wealthy wizard, Mr. Potter.”

Harry swallowed thickly. Clearly the Dursleys had never heard of this great fortune he supposedly had; he was sure he would be by now destitute and they living in a mansion. “Are the Potters well known, then?”

“Very much so, Mr. Potter. Especially you, of course.” The goblin’s smile turned slightly toothy and Harry had to fight the instinct to take a step back. He frowned.

“Me? Why am I famous?”

The goblin’s smile dimmed but his amusement did not falter. “Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, I am not the one to tell you that. You may look it up in any one of those history book you wizards love so much.” Harry wanted to press the matter, but the goblin suddenly leaned forwards, crossing his hands and speaking in a more serious manner. “Now, you have three vaults; one in which the family’s valuables are kept, one in which the cash is kept and the last one, your trust fund. At the moment you may only access the trust fund, but upon your coming of age at 16, as the head of the Potter line, you will gain full access to all the vaults. Would you like to visit your vault?”

* * *

 The ride down to the vault was at once terrifying and exhilarating for Harry; terrifying because he often felt he was about to fly off, exhilarating because he was sure he could save himself from death with a well-timed spell if needed. Besides, the cart seemed spelled so that one couldn’t fall off, even if they jumped. After what felt like long while, the rusty cart finally came to a stop in front of a large set of brass doors and the goblin stepped out. He looked back at Harry and gestured forwards. Harry climbed out and stood in front of the doors.

“What do I do?”

“Simply press your hand against the door and it will grant you access.”

Harry did, and the door suddenly seemed to turn liquid, fading quickly into the seams of the entrance to what appeared to be a massive cave filled to the brim with gold. Harry couldn’t help looking around in awe; all this belonged to him? And this was a _trust fund_? He turned to the goblin, still looking and feeling gobsmacked. “How much gold is there in here? And in the family vault?”

“In this particular vault there are currently 5 500 000 galleons. Each year you are transferred 500 000 galleons from the family vault. In the family vault there are currently 2 839 210 995 Galleons, 12 Sickles and 23 Knuts.”

Harry swallowed heavily. He was…rich didn’t cover what he was. “I take it Galleons, Sickles and Knuts are wizard currency? Which one is which? What’s the exchange rate? And why are there so many Galleons in comparison to the other coins?” He hoped he wasn’t asking so many questions that the goblin would grow annoyed and tell him to shut up and just take the money, but the goblin just crossed his arms behind his back. Harry wasn't sure why the goblin was suddenly being so forthcoming with information, but decided not to question it. He felt like he'd passed some sort of test.

“All coins deposited are automatically exchanged into the largest possible coin. Galleons are the gold ones, Sickles silver and Knuts copper. There are 17 Sickles to a Galleon and 29 Knuts to a Sickle,” he said.

Harry thought the exchange rate odd, but didn’t question what must by now be reasoning lost to the eons. He was suddenly struck by the thought that he’d only brought a small backpack with him for his trip; he had seen a shop back in the Alley that sold trunks, but the coins looked heavy and he didn’t want to have to come back just yet. He brought the backpack in front of him.

“ _Dilatet_ ,” he said, and fed the bag enough magic that it grew to twice its previous size. It still wasn’t very large, but Harry didn’t want to be seen lugging a huge bag around either. “ _P_ _onderemus quasi oxygeni,_ ” he then said, and felt the bag’s weight suddenly decrease until he could barely feel it in his hand. He’d learnt his lesson about making things weight nothing, or ‘like a feather’. The former had the rock he'd been experimenting on shooting upwards as it ‘floated’ up in the air; Harry had been terrified that if he’d let it go it would kill someone in its decent, but eventually managed to get it down gently. The latter, well; he’d learnt about how feathers were actually not light at all, simply very good at dealing with air friction. Eventually, he'd come up with the idea of using the elements. He knew air was mostly nitrogen, and as oxygen was very slightly denser than nitrogen, it sank slowly. Therefore, making his bag as light as oxygen meant he could still carry it around without fear that it would levitate off his shoulders. The spell would also cover anything inside the bag, as Harry had channeled his magic into an area which surrounded and in essence 'clung' to the bag, rather than into the bag itself; otherwise there would be no point to the spell.

He turned to the goblin to ask if there was a limit to the amount of coins he could retrieve, and maybe how much things cost on average, only to find the goblin had retreated to the cart and was pressed against its side, staring at him with a strange mixture of awe and fear on his face. Harry froze, and they both stood at a standstill for a few minutes until the goblin finally seemed to compose himself.

“How…how did you do that?” he said, his voice shaky and quiet. Harry looked at him curiously, if warily.

“I…cast a spell? What?” He had no idea why the goblin had reacted as he had. He was a goblin who lived with wizards, so clearly being able to do magic wasn’t the problem. Had he never heard of the spell? Was casting magic in public somehow taboo? Were people his age not supposed to do it?

“Where’s your wand? What spell is that?”

Harry frowned. Perhaps wands were more important than he’d realized. And what did the goblin mean, ‘what was that spell’? It was just Latin. “I haven’t got a wand yet; I sometimes do magic without it, although I'm not sure how,” he said slowly, trying to diffuse the event's importance. He didn’t add that he didn’t need a wand and never had. He got the feeling that the goblin would not react well. “And I’ve known that spell for a few years, I don’t know where I know it from originally.” Both answers were the truth and yet, as the goblin had done before him, relatively useless. Harry was suddenly perfectly certain that his magical ability was not, in some way, normal, and so decided to refrain from performing magic until he was better aware of why the goblin had reacted like that.

The goblin was tense for a few more moments before seeming to come to a decision. “That was a most…surprising display of magic. Forgive my reaction, I was not expecting it.” He seemed now to have gotten over his fear, but remained near the cart. There was silence for a few moments, and Harry turned back to the coins, uncomfortable.

“How many can I take out? And, if you don’t mind, could you tell me how much a trunk costs? And the average Hogwarts supplies?”

The goblin cleared his throat, once again crossing his arms behind his back. “You may take out as much as you like; the vault is fully yours. The cost for a trunk may range from 5 sickles to 20 000 galleons, depending on your needs and specifications, but on average they come to around 50 galleons. The average Hogwarts supplies are around 10 galleons, although if you want high quality materials it may cost up to 100 or more.”

Harry nodded his thanks at the information, then turned back to the vault. He quickly realized that the coins near the door were stacked in piles of 100 galleons, and scooped up 1000 into his bag. They fit nicely and Harry barely noticed their weight as he hoisted up the bag onto his shoulder. Then he turned back to the goblin.

“Excuse me, may I know your name? For when I return?” he asked. He’d liked the goblin, overall; he had been exceedingly helpful and relatively good natured, and apart from the magic incident felt that they had gotten along relatively well.

The goblin tensed again and Harry was struck by the thought that it might be considered horribly rude to ask the goblin for his name. However, the goblin then relaxed and smiled faintly once again.

“I am Gornuk, Mr. Potter. You may ask for me when you return, and I will be glad to help you.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and they then took the cart back up to the bank’s main floor. Once there, Harry once again turned to Gornuk.

“Before I leave,” he said. “Do you know where I could stay for the night? Somewhere that doesn’t stand out and isn’t too expensive.”

Gornuk seemed once again amused at Harry’s expense, but Harry was grateful that he hadn’t been further questioned on his magic and could take being mocked lightly.

“There are various places around the Alley, but the closest is the Leaky Cauldron. You will have passed through it to get here; it has a good reputation and is quite cheap,” Gornuk said, taking out a pouch of coins and then beginning to count them.

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Gornuk. It was very nice meeting you. I will return soon to talk more about my vaults and family assets; I hope you can help me with that as well.”

Gornuk gave him another toothy smile, although Harry had by now grown accustomed to it and merely returned it.

Harry left the bank, unaware of the calculating gaze that followed him out the door. He stood on the steps outside with his bag full of gold and looked around at the vast multitudes of shops which surrounded him. At least he didn’t have to worry about a curfew.

“Well now, where to start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about the delay in posting! I am very lazy and it can sometimes takes me more than a week to write a single chapter. I'll try to post as often as possible.  
> In return, this chapter is a bit longer than the others. I hope you like it! Any comments or suggestions are always welcome!


	4. Amicus

After a few moments of deliberation, Harry decided to begin his foray into the wizarding world by beginning with the acquisition of a robe. He didn’t want to call any more attention to himself than absolutely necessary, and his current Muggle clothes made him stand out. He decided that he would immediately afterwards go to a book shop and find out just why Gornuk thought he was famous. No one else had reacted in a strange manner upon seeing him, and he hadn’t seen any mention of himself or his family on any posters or the newspapers he’d passed, although he decided he’d better buy one and look over it more carefully. This at once calmed him and set him on edge; he was glad not to have been mobbed as he’d seen famous people be in the Dursley’s TV, but that made him wonder what _kind_ of a famous person he was. What was he even famous for? He didn’t remember ever doing anything particularly worthy of publicity. Did the people walking around him simply not care about what he’d done? Did they not recognize him, or not know what he looked like?

He also wanted to begin to read about all things available to wizards; he suspected the books identified in his Hogwarts letter were but a tiny fraction of the amount of subjects he could delve into. His palms itched with his desire to hold a book and get sucked in for hours on end. Nothing else felt like it. Magic came close, but for Harry the true grace came from the challenge of figuring out how to use Latin so that his magic would respond as he wished. Certainly, the feeling of magic rushing through his body, pulsing through his veins whenever he sought it was one he could not imagine himself living without, now that he knew what it felt like. But books were above even that.

He approached a shop which had an inscription above its entrance which read ‘ _Madame Malkin’s Robes for all Occasions’_ , and which behind a pane of glass Harry could see a variety of robes which looked like those of the wizards walking around the Alley. As soon as he walked in he noticed a short, plump woman who was helping a blonde boy who looked to be about Harry’s age try on his robes. She held a wand and was waving it about the boy’s robes in a hurried, practiced manner. She immediately noticed Harry, who was standing awkwardly by the door.

“Don’t just stand there, dear. Hogwarts, I take it? I’m Madam Malkin. Please stand on this footstool over here; I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”

Harry hurried to obey her, coming over to stand on the footstool next to the pair. The witch came over to stand in front of him, as the blonde boy looked his way curiously. A second witch emerged from a door near the back and took over with the other boy where Madame Malkin had left off.

“We have the standard set of Hogwarts robes, of course. I’ll get you fitted right up.” She threw a robe over his shoulders and immediately set about adjusting it for him.

“Hello,” the blonde boy suddenly said, and Harry turned to look at him. “Hogwarts, too?”

Harry nodded. He’d never been good at speaking to children his own age; he never knew how to act, and couldn’t relate to how they seemed to expect him to. This boy seemed rather more composed, however, than the average 11-year-old Harry knew of; he also looked rather more arrogant.

“My father's next door buying my books and mother is up the street looking at wands," he continued. He seemed to be about to speak further but what he’d said caught Harry’s attention.

“She’s looking at wands? Where?” He’d seen the bookshop he supposed the boy was talking about, one which had an engraving on the top which read _Flourish and Blotts_ , but he hadn’t seen any wands shops as he’d been walking round the Alley. The blonde boy didn’t seem to find the question odd, which Harry was grateful for, but he looked to be slightly annoyed at the interruption.

“Ollivander’s, of course.  He’s the best there is, and we Malfoys have only the best.”

Harry wondered for a moment what on earth a Malfoy was, before realizing it was probably the boy’s family’s name. From the way he’d said it, he seemed to assume that Harry already knew this, so Harry didn’t ask him about it.

“Of course, Ollivander’s. I’ll have to go there myself, too,” he told the boy. The blonde nodded with approval at his agreement, if with little interest.

“Do you know what House you’ll be in at Hogwarts yet?”

Harry felt himself freeze at the question. He had no idea what Houses were, although he guessed from the boy’s phrasing that it was some sort of group within Hogwarts. The letter hadn’t mentioned anything about Houses; should Harry already know which one he would go into? How did one go about choosing what House they went into? Did they even have a choice? Did it have anything to do with intelligence? Lineage? Eye color? Shoe size?

“I’m not sure yet,” he responded cautiously. The boy nodded and Harry felt himself relax minutely. Another question avoided.

“Well, of course. No one _knows_ until they get there,” the blonde acquiesced. “I’m certain I’ll be in Slytherin, though; all my family have been in it, after all,” he answered haughtily, and Harry noted that family was apparently important in the decision.

This wasn’t of much help to him, obviously; he still hadn’t had a chance to read up on his family history, although after his talk with Gornuk he knew that it was something he’d have to do as soon as possible. The knowledge that his parents – or at least, his father – were wizards, as he was, was at once strangely unsurprising and unsettling.  It was possible that the Dursleys had never found out that Harry’s parents knew about magic, but Harry was suspicious of it. They had reacted strangely well to Harry’s own ability for magic, and although at the time Harry hadn’t questioned it, over the years he’d come to realize that it was not normal for the Dursleys to accept his magic so easily. Sandy was a different matter; she seemed to be wrapped up in a belief that Harry’s magic was a blessing from heaven, and she would never do anything to bring him to harm. The Dursleys were under no such compunctions; the idea that they were already familiar with magic from Harry’s parents made their behavior much more understandable. Harry even understood why they’d never told him anything about it; they probably wanted absolutely nothing to with magic whatsoever, and it wasn’t like they were about to do Harry any favours.

“Imagine being in Hufflepuff; I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” the boy said, turning sideways so the woman could start up on his side.  “I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad, since they are known for their love for books. Gryffindor would be the absolute worst, of course, although there’s no way I’d end up there.” The boy’s expression was twisted up in mild disgust, as if Gryffindor was a particularly repugnant bug he’d found on the sole of his shoe.

“Maybe I’ll be in Ravenclaw,” Harry said, encouraged by the boy’s approval of the house’s alleged quality and eagerly grasping at the first wisp of a familiar subject. “I’ve read quite a bit, myself. I really enjoy all sorts books.”

“Really?” the blonde said, looking at Harry as if for the first time thinking he might actually be somewhat interesting as opposed to being someone with whom to occupy his time. Harry got the impression the boy was used to people agreeing with him mindlessly. From his appearance, Harry suspected he was rich and so was used to people approaching him only for money; Harry had read about those sorts of people often enough in his texts on ancient emperors and rulers. He’d never had the chance to suffer through it himself, although he supposed now he might get to. “Well, I enjoy reading as well, and my family’s library is immense. We have the largest collection of books in England, you see, except perhaps for the Hogwarts library.”

Harry’s eyes widened at the boy’s words. “Really? Wow! That’s absolutely fantastic,” he said, smiling. The other boy seemed surprised at his sudden enthusiasm before grinning.

“It really is quite astounding.” He seemed about to continue but then the door opened and a beautiful woman stepped in the shop. She had blonde hair which fell around her shoulders elegantly, and eyes a glittering, light blue, and she was dressed in dark emerald robes which Harry could only fathom cost a fortune. The boy immediately turned towards her.

“Mother! Did you find me a wand?”

The woman smiled serenely. “Draco, you know you need to go to Ollivander’s yourself to find your wand. I can’t bring one for you.”

Draco flushed slightly, nodding, before suddenly seeming to remember Harry was there. “Mother, this is…Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to ask for your name,” he said. Harry hesitated for a moment, but came to the conclusion that since they would both be going to Hogwarts together he’d find out sooner or later anyways.

“Harry Potter.”

Draco’s face went pale at an alarming rate, and Harry feared that the boy would faint. Before the boy could recover his bearings, the woman was suddenly right next to Harry, peering at him in a way that he found slightly disconcerting.

“Are you really?” she asked, her voice holding only a polite note of curiosity, but Harry could see  her sharp eyes scrutinizing him for any falsehood. Her magic was whipping about her, suddenly rather more agitated than it had been, and Harry wondered if it had been such a good idea to reveal who he was after all.

“You’re Harry Potter?” Draco suddenly blurted, before flushing red under his mother’s disapproving glance. “I mean…why didn’t you say anything?”

“I assumed you knew and that was why you hadn’t asked before. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” Harry said, preferring to seem slightly arrogant than to reveal his ignorance over whatever it was he was famous for. It didn’t seem like either of them would take such a thing lightly. Madam Malkin had stopped her bustling for a moment upon his revelation, but now continued as if nothing had happened; Harry appreciated her professionalism. Draco flushed even further.

“I…I mean…that…”

“What he means to say, dear, is that he usually has much better manners,” Draco’s mother cut in adroitly. Harry turned back to her; her scrutinizing gaze was gone, replaced instead with a gracious smile. Apparently she really did believe he was who he claimed, although how she’d come to the conclusion Harry wished he could find out. “My name is Narcissa Malfoy. I’m sorry for my son’s rudeness. I assume you are going to Hogwarts this term as well?”

Harry smiled politely. “Not at all, Mrs. Malfoy. He’s been perfectly charming. And yes, I’m going to Hogwarts this term with him. We were just discussing the Houses.”

Her smile turned slightly more warm at this, and Harry felt like he’d passed some sort of test.

“Have you gotten your wand yet? We were about to set out to Ollivander’s as soon as my husband arrives.”

Harry considered the proposition before nodding. The Malfoys seemed like a powerful family and, although Harry was not exactly planning his way into power, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have friends in high places. He was already famous anyways, and his family was clearly powerful in their own right, so his original plan of sticking to the shadows would clearly not work out quite as he’d hoped. Besides, Draco seemed like someone Harry could get along with, and he wasn’t sure how many of those people he’d find at Hogwarts.

“I have yet to get my wand, and was planning on heading in that direction as well,” he said, careful to allow Narcissa to be the one to make the offer openly. She seemed aware of his actions, but seemed also to approve of his manners.

“Well then, if you don’t mind, you could accompany us. I’m sure my husband would love to meet you, and Draco would appreciate having you along,” she said graciously, and Draco nodded, having gotten his flush under control and his bearings back. Harry smiled politely. The more he talked to Narcissa, the more he felt like he was living inside some of the books he’d read about medieval times, when royalty ruled autocratically and everyone who was anyone lived and breathed the Royal Courts. Narcissa certainly looked and behaved like a Lady from those times, and Harry felt the need to respond accordingly.

“I would be honored, Mrs. Malfoy.”

Madam Malkin suddenly straightened and gave Harry a once over. “Well, there you are. That will be 1 galleon for the robes, although if you want the full uniform that will be 3 galleons.”

“You should probably get two sets and a winter coat,” Draco said suddenly. He no longer sounded as haughty as he had before; rather, he seemed to be much open and relaxed towards Harry. “I’ve heard it can get pretty cold at Hogwarts, and you never know when an accident might destroy one of your robes irreparably.”

For a moment, Harry considered the boy’s sudden change in personality, then nodded his thanks and passed the order on to Madam Malkin. She immediately scurried off to bundle his purchases. A moment later the woman who was attending to Draco was also finished; Draco made the same order to her as he’d advised Harry to make and she hurried away.

It made sense that the blonde would treat Harry as an equal if he thought they were of equal social standing; his family clearly belonged to high society, if his mother was any indication, and Draco would probably have been brought up with a very specific idea of who he should socialize with. Harry was now within that category, and he was famous, besides; of course Draco would now feel more comfortable speaking to him as a friend rather than someone with whom his family would disapprove of his acquaintance. Harry didn’t blame him.

Besides, the suggestion was sound; although Harry was relatively certain that, if the need came up, he would be able to either repair or make another robe on his own, he still wasn’t sure what limitations he might need to pretend towards his own magic. It would be best to have two sets, just in case.

“So Harry, dear, how are feeling about attending Hogwarts?” Narcissa asked as they waited for their purchases near the desk.

“Quite excited. I’m really looking forwards to all the subjects; I’ve heard the library is amazing as well, and I can’t wait to see what it looks like,” he said. He didn’t mention he’d heard this from Draco only a few moments ago. She nodded.

“It is quite impressive indeed. Our own library can only hope to compare, even though it is magnificent in its own right. Hogwarts possesses many books we could only hope of purchasing elsewhere. It is quite pleasant to see someone so young taking an interest,” she said. “Is there any subject you are particularly interested in?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know enough about them to properly have a preference yet. Perhaps next year I will have a more coherent response.”

Narcissa smiled. “Very sensible answer, Harry,” she said, seemingly pleased.

“I’m excited for Potions. Severus Snape is my Godfather, you see,” Draco said, smiling slightly. Now that he didn’t appear as arrogant, Harry really thought he might grow to genuinely like Draco. The blonde’s haughty attitude would prevent too many people from trying to become his friend, which Harry appreciated due to his anti-social nature. Besides, the blonde liked to read, and that was almost always an automatic way to gain Harry’s approval.

“That’s great. Potions sounds interesting,” Harry said, wondering who on earth Severus Snape was. He supposed he was their Potions teacher, although he wondered how Draco knew who would teach them. Maybe his Godfather had told him? How many teachers were there?

“It really is. I’ve read a lot about it, and I’ve been practicing with him so I can improve my skills. Have you ever made a potion?”

Harry smiled nervously. “Never had a chance, but I’m looking forward to it. Is it very hard?”

“It’s not really, if you pay attention, although actually being good at Potions takes more than just the ability to read instructions. Uncle Snape was teaching me how…Father, you’re back.” Draco suddenly cut himself off, turning to look at a blonde man who had walked into the shop.

The man was as strikingly attractive as Narcissa Malfoy, with hair a blonde so light it was almost white and a countenance that spoke of nobility. He looked like Harry could imagine Draco might as he grew older, although Draco’s features were slightly softened by his mother’s genes. However, it was the man’s magic that really made him stand out to Harry; his magic was unlike any other Harry had felt up until now. It was carefully controlled and yet felt icily vicious, and if Harry had to choose an animal to describe it he’d pick a blank mamba. It swarmed under the man’s skin, coiled and ready to strike. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine at the obvious power.

Draco’s father’s grey eyes surveyed the shop before they suddenly landed on Harry, narrowing as he registered the unknown boy talking with his wife and son so naturally. His magic pulsed dangerously. Draco, sensing the atmosphere, immediately intervened.

“Father, this is Harry Potter. Harry, this is my father, Lucius Malfoy. Father, I just met Harry as he was trying on his robes and we thought he could come with us for his wand at Ollivander’s.”

Harry watched as Lucius absorbed the information before once again regarding Harry. His expression had gone from frosty to cordial, although Harry still had the feeling of being regarded as beneath the man. His magic was suddenly exceedingly still.

“Mr. Potter,” he said, softly. “What a pleasure to finally meet you.” Something in his tone gave Harry the feeling that the sentiment was not entirely felt.

Harry bowed slightly. “Likewise, Sir,” he said, turning slightly towards Narcissa. He preferred to defer to her, with whom he’d already established a reasonably amicable relationship. She seemed to pick up on his hesitance and nervousness and smiled calmly at her husband.

“Harry has agreed to accompany us as soon as Madam Malkin has our robes ready,” she said. Something seemed to pass between the married couple, before Lucius nodded. His magic ceased its unnatural stillness and now once again ran through his skin, although the man’s expression did not change. Harry breathed out slowly.

“Very well. I hope that will not take too long?”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Madam Malkin returned with two small bundles in her arms. For a moment Harry wondered if there had been some mistake before realizing that she had probably spelled the clothes smaller so that they would be easier to carry. Harry took one and Draco the other; Harry placed his inside his bag, grateful he’d thought of enlarging it or else after the coins nothing else would have fit. He noted that it might be a good idea to buy a trunk before going to the bookstore. He took out 9 galleons and paid Madam Malkin as Narcissa reached into her purse to do the same, and they then walked out of the shop together.

Harry quickly noted how everyone looked their way as they walked down Diagon Alley, talking about Hogwarts and what they should be looking forwards to in the coming year. He wasn’t surprised; the Malfoys were a stunning family, and they seemed to be well known. Few people seemed to notice Harry, but if they did they gave him curious looks, as if asking themselves why the Malfoys would be around him, who he could possibly be. He was certainly more noticeably than he preferred being, and it made him regret for a moment accepting Narcissa’s suggestion, but he actually was enjoying being around the Malfoys. After talking for a while, Lucius seemed to warm to Harry slightly, especially after they had begun discussing his love for books. The man had even insinuated that perhaps Harry might at some point like to visit their home, Malfoy Manor, to peruse their library, an offer which Harry fully intended to take advantage of if the opportunity presented itself. All three of them shared an appreciation for knowledge that Harry was extremely grateful for, even if it was clear that it wasn’t as deeply entrenched as Harry’s own.

Narcissa seemed interested mostly in books for their entertainment value; she was certainly intelligent, but seemed to have guided her intellect largely into social matters. Draco was more practical; he enjoyed reading on potions and dueling because he could apply what he’d learned on actual, physical tests. It wasn’t that he was bad at theory, but it clearly wasn’t something he enjoyed as much. Lucius didn’t say much about himself, but Harry got the impression he was primarily a politician. By the time they arrived at Ollivander’s, he had managed to engage Lucius in a conversation about what the ideal form of government could be, with Draco intervening every once in a while with a question or opinion. They were forced to stop mid-way through a discussion on the merits and failings of parliamentary democracy as Narcissa carefully interrupted them to enter the shop.

A small bell rang somewhere in the back of the shop as the group stepped inside. It was an odd shop, dusty, misty and covered floor to ceiling with small, long boxes, and Harry felt oddly like the Malfoys did not fit in the place. Suddenly, from the depths of the shop, an old man seemed to appear. His eyes were wide and silvery and Harry could not feel his magic at all. It made him oddly nauseous.

“Good afternoon,” the old man said softly, coming to stand in front of the group. His milky eyes suddenly centered on Harry, who fought the urge to squirm uncomfortably.

“I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." The old man moved closer to Harry.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it – it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.” He paused for a moment. “And that's where…” He reached out with a long finger towards Harry’s forehead, coming to rest lightly upon a white, ragged scar which Harry had never before paid any attention to.

With an inexplicable realization that felt more like a brutal slap, Harry was suddenly perfectly certain that this scar was the brand of his fame. He took an unsteady step backwards, needing to put space between the man and himself. There was a moment of silence before Lucius took a step forwards, placing himself between Harry and the old man. Draco came up next to Harry, looking slightly worried at his vacant and pale face.

“Mr. Ollivander, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, we’d like to purchase some wands. If you would oblige us?” His face seemed congenial, his tone deceptively calm, but Harry could see Lucius’ magic fluttering nervously. He didn’t seem to feel any more comfortable in front of Ollivander than Harry did, though Harry noticed that neither Narcissa’s nor Draco’s magic seemed to be reacting nervously. Perhaps it was only those who were more sensitive to magic, who were more in touch with it, who could feel Ollivander’s unsettling lack? Harry wanted to ask Lucius is he too could detect magic, but wasn’t sure he dared just yet. The man had appeared to almost like Harry, but he was under no illusions that the man wouldn’t regress back to frosty politeness if he found Harry lacking in any way.

Ollivander nodded, taking a step back. “Yes, of course. Well, Mr. Potter, which is your wand arm?”

Harry shook his head to dispel the feeling of queasiness, although it was not particularly effective. “I’m right-handed, Sir.”

“Come over here and hold out your arm, that’s it,” Ollivander said. Harry approached Ollivander as he took out a tape measure and began measuring his arm, then his shoulder, his neck and head. None of the Malfoys seemed to find this odd, so Harry didn’t question the strange event although he felt slightly ridiculous. Eventually, Ollivander stepped back once again and began perusing through the boxes of wands. He took one out and handed it to Harry.

“Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry grasped the wand in his hand and immediately felt its unpleasantness. His magic seemed to recoil away from the wood, as if actively fighting his grip.

“No. This isn’t the wand,” he said, hurriedly giving it back to Ollivander before his magic became even more unsettled. He shook his hand to get rid of the odd feeling. Ollivander watched him curiously before peering into his eyes.

“A magic sensitive,” he said softly, so softly that Harry barely heard and he was sure the Malfoys had not. “How amazing that you, Mr. Potter, would turn out to be one.” He turned back to the huge wall of boxes, and then gestured Harry over, who gingerly joined him. Closer now to the boxes, he could feel them all humming quietly, a flicker of magic here and there which ticked his own oddly. He shivered.

“Now, Mr. Potter. This is an unusual circumstance. You can feel the wands, yes?” Harry nodded, feeling it would do no good to pretend otherwise. “Very well, then. Feel free to choose that which feels right for you. I will go attend to Mr. Malfoy. Call me if anything appears to work.” He then walked over to Draco and once again began the process of measuring everything in his body that could be measured. Harry looked over to Narcissa and Lucius; they were looking at him curiously, wondering why he’d been left alone with the wands, although Lucius was giving him a calculating look. Harry turned back to the wands, wishing to deal with problems one at a time. He closed his eyes.

For a moment, his senses were overloaded with the sheer quantity of wands which surrounded him; however, after a few seconds, his magic began to tune into a few more strongly than others and began to pull him in their direction. Harry opened his eyes and, following the pull of his magic, pulled out 4 boxes of wands.

The first one was a dark brown color and had magic which seemed to tingle pleasantly with his own, but as soon as he touched it the feeling became impossibly uncomfortable and he was forced to place the wand back in its place.

The second wand was fully black, longer than the first one, and when Harry picked it up he at first felt nothing, his magic seemingly not noticing the wand. After a few moments though, he felt his fingers tingling in an unsettling manner, and he quickly set the wand down.

The third box contained a light brown wand, slightly longer than the black one. Harry picked it up gingerly. Immediately he felt odd. His magic seemed drawn to the wand and yet also repelled, as if it could not make up its mind. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but it was slightly distracting. Harry placed the wand back in the box, setting it aside as the most likely one yet. He then turned to the last box.

The last wand was a deep red color; it was about as long as the black one had been, but thinner. As Harry’s fingers closed around the handle, he felt an odd sort of pain run up his arm. He almost let go of the wand, but as his fingers loosened he suddenly noted how his magic seemed to reach out desperately to what he was still holding of the wand, wrapping round it and seeming almost to caress it. Harry was torn; pain had never bothered him, but he did not feel comfortable with the idea of a wand that caused him pain every time he handled, for a variety of reasons. However, he’d never seen or felt his magic react to anything like this before, and the feeling he got from it was incredibly pleasant in a deeply satisfying way.

He grasped the wand more tightly, feeling once again the pain, as if his palm was being cut. He lifted the wand out of box. The pain did not come back, but his magic still revolved around the wand, slowly covering it as far as it could read, shifting on its surface as if excited at each new touch, each discovery. Harry waited a bit longer to see if his magic changed its mind or reacted strangely, but after a few moments of the same enchanting dance returned the wand to the box. He then looked down at his palm, wanting to check that he wasn’t actually bleeding; there wasn’t any lasting ache, but he could feel a phantom soreness from the initial pain. Once having confirmed the lack of a wound, he placed the other three wands back in their respective places and turned back to Ollivander and the Malfoys. If the wand was actually dangerous, he was sure it wouldn’t be sold to children.

Draco had meanwhile already chosen his wand and was excitedly waving it around and producing small fireworks. Both Lucius and Narcissa seemed proudly pleased with their son, although Harry noted how Lucius was still watching him curiously. From where they were standing they would not have been able to see what wand Harry had chosen – or rather, which wand had chosen him. He approached the group, handing Ollivander the box with the red wand. Ollivander gave him a slight smile before taking the box and opening it. His smile abruptly fell off and Harry felt his stomach sink.

“Oh my, Mr. Potter,” he said. His voice was soft and sad. “Oh my.”

“What is it, Mr. Ollivander?” Narcissa asked him, noticing the man’s distress. Draco stopped waving around his wand and looked over to them.

“What’s wrong, Harry?”

Harry shook his head slightly. Ollivander placed the box on the table next to him and drew out the wand. Harry noted how Narcissa’s and Lucius’ eyes widened as they caught sight of it and wished fervently he’d stayed with the light brown wand which his magic wasn’t sure whether to like or not but at least didn’t feel uncomfortable.

“10 inches. Basilisk fang and…bloodwood.” He paused for a moment. “Using this wood for a wand is exceedingly rare, Mr. Potter. Do you know why that is?” Harry shook his head. “Bloodwood is not like other kinds of wood; it will not bond to most cores. It takes a very powerful, unique core to bind with bloodwood, Mr. Potter, rather as with the wizard.” He turned his grey eyes on Harry. “What do you feel, Mr. Potter, when you hold this wand?”

Harry swallowed lightly. The Malfoys were all silent, watching the exchange.

“I…I feel a slight pain in my hand. But then my magic is very attracted to the wand; it’s the only wand my magic seems to accept at all.”

Ollivander nodded, sighing. “That seems about right Mr. Potter. Bloodwood is quite extraordinary, as I’m sure will you be.” He placed the wand back in the box and handed it to Harry. “Do not worry about the pain; it is a natural response between two powerful entities bonding. So long as your magic accepts the wand it will never bring you to harm, and it is most likely the only wand you will ever be able to properly wield.”

Harry nodded. He believed Ollivander’s words, although he wasn’t sure why. The box in his hands pulsed with magic.

“Mr. Malfoy’s wand will be 6 galleons. I’m afraid your wand, Mr. Potter, is slightly more expensive. It will cost 13 galleons.”

Harry paid him without hesitation; given his fortune, 7 galleons more or less were nothing to him. He was still unsettled enough with the events on the wand that he barely noticed as Narcissa ushered him out of the shop with Draco and Lucius in tow and walked him over to a bench in a secluded section of the Alley, where they could not be easily observed by passerby; there she sat him down carefully.

They were silent for a while until Harry finally looked up. They all seemed worried; even Lucius was looking at him with what Harry could barely identify as concern, although it was more a feeling he got from his magic than from the man’s carefully guarded expression. He smiled softly at them, feeling a sudden flash of affection for this family which for some reason he couldn’t properly fathom was being genuinely nice to him.

“Thank you. I…I’m sorry for that, I was a bit unsettled about…about the wand.”

She nodded, understanding. “Don’t worry, dear. It was an unexpected surprise for all of us. No one could have expected you to bond with bloodwood, after all.” She gave the box held tightly in his hand a wary glance.

They stood up and continued walking down the Alley back to where Madam Malkin’s was. After a moment Draco manage to engage Harry in a conversation about potions, telling him of the basics of potion-making and all the things he had to know. Harry appreciated the blonde’s attempt at distracting him, especially since it was with useful information that he really was interested in listening to. Eventually they reached their destination.

“We will have to leave now, Harry.” Narcissa said apologetically. “It was very nice meeting you, and I hope we can do so again sometime.” She smiled at him, and Harry smiled back. Lucius nodded.

“We certainly must continue our discussion on democracy at some point, Potter,” he said, graciously. Harry nodded to him as well, appreciating the gesture greatly from the Malfoy patriarch.

Draco smiled at him. “We’ll probably see you at the train soon. Take care until then.”

Harry smiled widely back. “Yeah, definitely. You too.”

The Malfoys then departed, and Harry watched the beautiful trio disappear down the street with a flutter of warmth in his heart and a box with a blood red wand clutched in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I'm so sorry about how long this update took. I'm terrible at posting regularly. I'm really so sorry.  
> I'm so glad that people like this story! Thank you everyone for your kind comments. Please know that I read them all and appreciate them all. Thank so so much.
> 
> I'd like to make a very small point for this story, and for this chapter in particular.  
> This is story is an AU. It is based on the original JK Rowling characters, but not all characters will follow exactly as they did in the books. Don't worry, they won't deviate too strongly, but please keep in mind that they are also not the same characters you knew. That's all, thank you!
> 
> I'd also like to point out that a few lines in this chapter were copied directly from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.


	5. Librorum

For a little while after the Malfoys were gone, Harry sat silently on the bench musing on his situation. It was getting late already; he hadn’t noticed time go by while he’d been with the family, and although he wanted to go to the bookshop as soon as possible, he didn’t want to be caught out in the dark in the unfamiliar Alley. He’d learned quickly that being out after dark was not a safe idea, especially not in a place where he was surrounded by people whose capabilities and inclinations he wasn’t yet sure of, such as wizards. He didn’t think the Malfoys would have left him alone in a dangerous place, but something which was commonsense to them might not be so for Harry, and as such dangerous. As well, he wasn’t sure yet about how magic was handled, a thought which troubled him deeply, and so was hesitant at the idea of remaining outside too late. From the sun’s position, he estimated he had about another two hours before it got fully dark.

He hesitated, however, at the entrance to the bookshop, Flourish and Blotts. He didn’t have time right now for his school books; he wanted to browse the shop as extensively as possible and right now he’d have to cut that short, but he did feel that it was important that he attempt to find out who he was, and perhaps something of the more common Wizarding customs. He’d gotten lucky with the Malfoys, and he didn’t expect that to hold out. After a moment of deliberation, he stepped up to the shop.

20 minutes later, he stepped back out with three books tucked inside a bag the manager, Mr. Blotts, had given him. The first one, titled _Famous Wizards and Witches of the 20 th Century_, by Peter Francis, was where Harry hoped to find out about his fame, as well as other celebrities about whom he was probably expected to know something about. He’d quickly checked the Glossary just to make sure the book did in fact contain information on him. For a moment, he wished desperately not to see his name in the book, and yet the ink showed the print clearly, _Potter, Harry_ _\- page 138,_ and Harry had to control his breathing for a moment. This was real. He really was famous. Even having everyone know who he was didn’t really set the idea into his mind as seeing it written down in a book did. This was very, very real.

The second book, titled _Customs and Traditions,_ by Fritz Swisch, was a book which encompassed Wizarding traditions from many years back. It focused mostly on the pureblood aspects of society, according to Mr. Blotts, something which Harry felt he really ought to get in touch with if he wanted to continue being friends with the Malfoys, which he did. From what Gornuk had said, he was relatively certain that as a Potter he was also a pureblood, and so felt that it would be in his best interests to pursue those traditions. The third and final book was the only one which he’d bought which had to do with academic life; it was a potions book, titled _Extended Theory of Potion-Making_ , by Libatius Borage. He’d bought it in honor of Draco, who he was sure would be delighted that he’d taken an interest in the subject. It was a higher level book that he perhaps would be expected to be reading; the shop’s manager had looked vaguely alarmed at the choice, and Harry had had to claim that it was for a friend of his who wanted to study Potions so that the man would let him buy it in peace. It reminded Harry a bit of the school-teacher that had treated him like an idiot, but by now he’d come to terms with the fact that most adults were simply too set in their views of children as ignorant dunderheads, and Harry honestly didn’t care enough to try and change it. He’d stored his wand in his own bag once it became clear that it was getting in the way. He didn’t want to have to explain to anyone his odd wand, and began to plan on ways of hiding his wand’s color. He hoped it wasn’t a Hogwarts requirement that he declare his wand type and core, and wondered if there were other ways of detecting what he wand was than by visual cues. Harry himself definitely could feel a peculiar pulsing in the wand’s magic, which was what had drawn him to it in the first place. However, if Ollivander’s comment merited anything, his talent was not common, so he felt safe in assuming that ‘magic sensitivity’ would not reveal his secret.

He stopped briefly in a bakery for a sandwich; there were all sorts of interesting pastries, a few of which were moving about their glass display cases and which Harry wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to eat anyways. He made sure his hair covered his scar before talking to the nice woman at the counter, as at the bookshop. He wasn’t sure what to do about it yet; his first instinct was to attempt to rearrange the skin on his forehead so the scar became less visible, or became unrecognizable. He quickly discarded that idea, as the scar was essentially the proof of his identity, and explaining how he’d managed the change might get awkward.

He chewed thoughtfully on his ham sandwich as he traipsed down the road, the light beginning to dwindle around him. The crowd had thinned, and now there were only a few people walking by, who seemed to be going home from a hard day at work. Harry could feel, however, a sense of unease as the day slowly came to a close, and was glad he’d decided to return to the pub. He reached the Leaky Cauldron, noting with interest that from the side of the Alley, the entrance to the pub seemed to be a normal opening; he could, however, detect an odd shift in the magic of the entrance. He approached Tom, who was standing at the same place as before, polishing a glass slowly. He looked up and smiled as Harry approached.

“Hello, lad. Have a good day?”

Harry nodded. “Quite, thank you.” He paused, then asked carefully, “Sir, how much would renting a room out for a week cost?”

Tom seemed surprised at his question, and Harry supposed he didn’t get many 11-year-olds asking for lodging.

“Well, lad…” he began, frowning. “You must understand that this is an odd situation…if you don’t mind me asking, why do you need lodging? Where are your parents?”

Harry contained the urge to sigh. He wasn’t looking forward to revealing his identity, but he’d rather not lie to someone who he was relatively certain he’d have to interact with further in the future. He came closer to Tom, on the other side of the bar where the other customers would not be able to see them clearly.

“Please don’t say anything,” he said, “I really don’t want to cause a fuss.”

Tom looked confused and vaguely wary, but nodded. Harry placed down the bag with the books on the floor and then raised the fringe covering his scar. Tom’s eyes widened, and Harry brought the lock of hair down.

“Please, Sir,” he whispered pleadingly, “I just need a place to stay for the week. I won’t be a bother at all. I can pay.”

Tom stood there for a moment before managing to control his shock.

“Harry Potter,” he whispered softly, as if in awe. “Harry Potter.”

Harry nodded, awkward. He picked his bag back up and retreated to the other side of the bar. Tom stood there quietly for another moment before shaking his head sharply and then turning back to Harry. “I won’t say anything as long as no one asks, and I won’t question why you want to stay here. You can stay here for free as long as you wish,” he said, quieting down Harry’s initial protests with a firm shake of his head. “It’s the least I can do for you after what you’ve done for us, Mr. Potter.”

Harry swallowed thickly. What on _earth_ had he done?!

He nodded, thanking Tom, who nodded back shakily before handing him a key and then leading him over across the pub and into a separate section which was lined with doors with numbers on the top. He stopped in front of one which had a number 6.

“This is room number 6. It will be yours for the week. This establishment has all the standard anti-burglar spells, of course, and privacy wards. If you need anything, lad, please call me.” He then turned to Harry fully, and Harry was startled to see tears brimming in the man’s eyes. A slight smile was turned on him.

“Harry Potter,” Tom said softly, before bowing and then returning back the way they’d come to the pub. Harry stood there, feeling awkward and a little like running away. However, he pushed down the feeling, unlocked the door to his room and went inside.

The room was cozy and clean, and honestly a lot nicer than Harry expected from the pub’s dingy appearance. He set down his book-bag and the backpack at the foot of the bed, retrieving the book on famous witches and wizards. He sat down on the comfy bed, opening the book to page 138.

He stiffened.

There, under his name written in beautiful calligraphy, was a photo of himself. Not just of himself, though; it was a photo of him as a baby, probably no older than a few months. He was being held by a woman, who was smiling at the camera and at the man next to her. The man had his arm around the woman and they all looked happy, proud and pleased.

They all looked like a family.

Harry snapped the book shut, feeling his lungs contract desperately around air that didn’t seem to want to come.  He’d never before seen a picture of his parents, and yet the similarity between them was too perfect to ignore. The man had Harry’s hair and he could recognize some of his facial features in him, especially the glasses. The woman, too, looked familiar in a way he could only place with looking in a mirror, although in a subtler way.

James and Lily Potter. His parents.

Harry grit his teeth and opened the book back up. The picture was still there, and he watched it for a few minutes, simply taking in the features of his parents, committing them to memory. Then, he began to read.

_Harry Potter_

_Born on the 31 st of  July, 1980, Harry James Potter is the son of Lily and James Potter. He is famous for his defeat of the Dark Wizard known as Voldemort (You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) on the 31st of October, 1981, therefore bringing about the end of the First Wizarding War. Through as of yet unexplained circumstances, he survived the Killing Curse, defeating You-Know-Who in the process. He is the only known survivor of this Curse, which left as its only reminder a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. _

Harry blinked. He then read the passage again, then once more. Once he was sure he hadn’t actually made any mistake in reading the book, he closed it once again.

He’d _defeated_ a Dark Wizard and by this ended a _war_ , when he was _one_ , through _‘as of yet unexplained circumstances’_?

“ _Hoc ridiculum est_ ,” he murmured, frowning. His first reaction was to call bullshit, but everyone seemed pretty certain he’d done _something_. He could probably talk about it with Tom later, perhaps asking him if he had any theories on why he’d survived this Curse. He had some himself, but first he’d have to check out what the Killing Curse did on itself; did it stop his heart? Vanish his blood? Explode his brain? It also struck Harry as odd that there was only the one Killing Curse. He’d have thought there were thousands of ways to kill someone. What made this one so special?

Satisfied for now with the answer he’d gotten to the looming question of his fame, he retrieved the book on Potions. He’d start reading the book on traditions later on; right now his brain ached to learn something scientific, or as close as it could come to with magic, and Potions seemed as good a place to start as any. He opened the book to the introduction, and settled down on the bed to read comfortably.

 

* * *

 

He woke the next morning to a knock on his door.

“Yes?” he called out blearily, rubbing his eyes. He’d gone to sleep late last night; the Potions book had been more interesting than he’d thought, filled with a variety of information on ingredients and techniques for potions’ brewing that had Harry struggling to understand. He did enjoy a challenge, however, and he promised himself to devote at least 30 minutes every day until school started to memorizing as many as he could of the various magical plants and animals described in the book as possible. He planned to devote an hour to learning theory every day, as well; it reminded him of what he’d read on chemistry mixed with cooking, although he wasn’t sure he’d enjoy consuming most of the potions described in the book. Even so, what he’d read until now had been quite fascinating, and Harry was looking forwards to classes in Hogwarts, especially since it was with Draco’s Godfather.

“Lad, I forgot to tell you yesterday, but we serve breakfast until 10 am. It’s 9:30, would you like me to save you something?” It was Tom.

Harry yawned and got out of the bed. “No, that’s alright. I’ll go in a moment, thank you.”

“Alright, lad.” Tom replied, and Harry heard his footsteps disappear down the hall. He yawned again, looking around briefly. Everything was as he’d left it last night, lit by the morning sun streaming in through the curtains. He straightened his shirt and pressed his hands against it, noting that he should probably buy a pair of pajamas or at least a change in clothing. He didn’t really mind wearing the same thing every day, but others might ask questions.

“ _Purgo_ ,” he said, pushing some of his magic into the shirt. He felt it reach through the strands quickly, spreading over skin for a moment before it settled in. Then, there was a slight sound, like a puff of air, and a cloud of dust emanated from his shirt. He waved his hand around it, pushing it away from himself with a light sheen of magical intent which prevented the dust from clinging back onto him. His shirt was now looking as clean a new. He repeated the spell on his pants, then, after a moment of hesitation, brushed his hair over his forehead with his fingers, making sure it covered his scar.

He ate breakfast sedately, reading the newspaper as he did; he thought it was important to be acquainted with current events in the Wizarding world, as they were liable to be a topic of conversation with his school-mates. He’d gotten a shock when he’d first seen the newspapers; the pictures moved! He’d managed to control his shock, however, and thanked Tom, who had been the one to provide it for him, a newspaper which heralded on its cover the words “The Daily Prophet”. There wasn’t any particularly interesting news; there were a few mentions of magical beasts being sighted in Africa, as well as an article on the Greengrass Family having donated a handsome sum to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

 He was excited about going back to the bookstore, but he wanted to get a trunk first, so as to be able to store all his Hogwarts supplies. He took a quick shower in the adjoined bathroom to his room and picked out one of the school robes to wear over his Muggle clothes.

The walk down the Alley was uneventful, if pleasant in a simple way. Harry noted that now that he was dressed in proper Wizard attire, he was attracting even less attention that usual, and felt himself relax and he walked down the street inconspicuously. He reached the shop with the trunks and went inside.

It was larger than Ollivanders, but not as large as Flourish and Blotts. The large amount of trunks all around the shop gave in an interesting look, and Harry found himself getting lost in the multitude of tiny details in many of the decorations. He could sense some trunks vibrated with an inordinate amount of magic compared to others, and relative to their size, and he wondered what that meant.

“Good morning, may I help you?”

Harry turned at to look at the man who had addressed him, a medium-sized, unassuming man who smiled at him pleasantly. He smiled back.

“Yes, please. I’m looking for a trunk in which I can carry a large amount of materials, mostly books, but also Potions ingredients and the like.” After his reading that night, he was determined to experiment with Potions on his own. There were already a few ideas he wanted to try out, and he wasn’t even a tenth of the way through the book.

The shopkeeper nodded, looking slightly perplexed at his request. “Of course, of course. We have a variety of trunks which were made especially to host a library and a potions pantry; they are usually bought by Professors or Masters, however.” He didn’t seem to know exactly how to go on. Harry smiled, although inside he wished people would stop assuming things and simply let him buy the stuff he wanted.

“I know, but I’d like to buy one now so that it will last me for many years. A long-term investment,” he said. The man nodded, understanding, although he still looked unsure. However, he led Harry over to the collection of trunks from which Harry could feel the largest emanation of magic.  He gestured to the three in the front, which were organized by size.

“The smallest one here can contain about 50 books, store about 20 standard-size vials. The medium can handle 100 books and 50 vials. The largest can hold up to 150 books and 100 vials. All three also contain a section for clothes and the like, as well as security charms which you may provide a password for, or key in to your magical signature if you prefer. The smallest costs 200 galleons, the medium 400 and the largest 700. Any further spells will come with an additional price, although the security charms are included.”

Harry nodded. “Could I see the inside of the largest one?” he said. He had a feeling he would very quickly fill up the allowed size of the other two, and wondered if he could make any modifications to the trunk himself. Honestly he thought he could probably make a better trunk on his own, but until he could claim he’d learned how at Hogwarts, he didn’t want to go down that route. Any modifications, he could claim had come as part of the original trunk.

After a quick run through of what the trunk looked like on the inside and how it worked – how to unlock it, how to lock in back up,  how to rifle through the various sections inside the trunk, how to browse the library and potions, how the security worked – Harry told the man he’d buy it. The man looked fairy surprised; he’d obviously expected Harry not to be able to pay for it, but once he saw Harry opening the gold-filled backpack his eyes widened and he nodded.

Harry paid for the trunk and quickly left the shop. The man looked like he wanted to ask questions and Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to give answers; the man would soon find out who he was anyways.

He walked briskly down the alley, carrying the trunk next to him. As soon as he’d exited the shop, Harry had discretely placed his light-weight spell on it, making sure the words were said as quietly as possible so no one else would notice.

He went back to Flourish and Blotts, where Mr. Blotts greeted him warmly if tiredly. Harry could see a few children with their parents running about, a few of them his age, some older. He wondered if any of them were going to Hogwarts. Were there other schools around?

He’d told Mr. Blotts yesterday that he would buy his school books, and the manager had indicated a section where apparently all the Hogwarts issues were kept. Harry grabbed a basket from near the door, in which to carry his books, and quickly walked over and picked out the ones specified in the Hogwarts letter. The basket held a light-weight spell, and so Harry had no trouble carting it around as he began browsing the shelved.

He eventually approached the front desk a few hours later with around twenty books which he’d been unable to leave without buying. He’d tried to control his urge to get almost every book, knowing that they were liable to be at Hogwarts of in his family library, but he supposed it didn’t much matter. He didn’t mind having doubles.

He’d bought, apart from those specified in his curriculum, 2 more potions books, of which one delved further into theory and the other was specifically on magical ingredients and their effects. He’d bought 2 books on Arithmancy; he’d always liked math, but he accepted that he wasn’t very good at it. He was fine working with physics, but when asked abstract questions about functions or trigonometry he often complicated the situation much more than he should and didn’t arrive at a proper answer. Give him something to work towards, an application, even if theoretical, and he could do it well; give him an equation and a relationship and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Harry wasn’t particularly worried about his limitation towards the abstract; he was intrinsically practical, and as he had no trouble with actual problems with actual applications, he wasn’t too troubled. Still, he’d like to get a better grasp on various topics; thus, the books.

He’d bought 3 additional books on magical theory; one of them delved into the different kinds of magic which could be used, such as in spells, charms and potions. Another focused on the creation of spells; he’d also bought 2 books on runes, which were apparently the main binding feature between magic and the rest of the world, although there were also others, such as rituals. The last one was on the theoretical relationship between Witches and Wizards, and Magic, which Harry hoped could answer some of his questions on wands and his own, apparently unusual magic use.

The last book was smaller than the rest, dark and without lettering on the cover. Harry had been walking in a dark, musty section near the back of the shop which didn’t seem like many people often went to, looking to see if anything caught his eye. He’d felt a strange shifting in the magic around the book, similar to the one he could feel on his wand, and he’d opened it after carefully removing it from its shelf. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in a long time, the pages slightly yellowed with age and brittle.

The first page was blank except for a few words, written in small, elegant print near the center of the book.

_Sanguis Magicae_

Harry blinked. That seemed promising.

He sighed as he placed the book in his basket, hidden under _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ by Miranda Goshawk. He was certain that if others saw the book, he’d be asked about it. There was a certain air to it that bespoke mystery, and although part of Harry wanted to leave it behind and not get even further entangled into strange objects, he simply couldn’t when it felt so much like his mysterious wand. Speaking of his wand, he still wasn't sure what to do about its color. He'd experiment with it back in Privet Drive; he didn't trust that his magic would go unnoticed within Diagon Alley.

The manager looked even more tired than yesterday; he sighed when he saw the large amount of books Harry’d bought. For a moment Harry wondered if the man would have to look at the all, and if he’d have to explain the odd black book, but Mr. Blotts simply touched the basket with his wand (which was not red, Harry noted, but a pleasant shade of light brown) and a piece of paper suddenly appeared on his desk with 3 numbers.

“That will be 1 galleon, 4 sickles and 13 knuts.”

Harry took out two galleons from his bag and paid. He then quickly transferred the books from the basket to his trunk, making sure the black book stayed hidden at all times. Mr. Blotts didn’t seem particularly interested, looking around the shop and checking that the other customers weren’t damaging the books or needed help. As soon as Harry was finished, he thanked Mr. Blotts and exited the shop.

He spent the next hour buying the rest of the necessary equipment for Hogwarts, then went to the Apothecary he’d seen near the entrance to Diagon Alley. He asked the shopkeeper for the basic Hogwarts supplies first, then he asked for a variety of different ingredients which Borage had stated were a good starting point for experimenting with techniques and reactions without fear of death or destruction. He was tempted to buy a few extra ingredients, but knew from experience with his own experiments with magic that playing with magical substances one didn’t understand was a good way to get maimed or killed, no matter how prepared he thought he was.

Done with the necessary shopping, he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, where he ate lunch and then retreated to his room to investigate his new acquisitions. He spent the afternoon reading, first going further in the Potions book and then getting sucked in with the Runes text. He’d planned to begin investigating the small black book, but the thought slipped his mind as he became enraptured in the Runes. He quickly realized with excitement that it was basically like learning Latin had been, a new language, with different writing, grammatical rules and possible applications. He was so interested in the book, that when he looked back up he realized that the moon was already up and that he’d missed the chance to go back out to the Alley again today. He didn’t particularly mind; Runes were fascinating, and although Harry knew he still had a long way to go before he’d be able to understand and use them properly, he was excited at the prospect. The author had mentioned various times that Runes were often difficult for most people because their true nature lay not in modern languages, but in Latin. As such, most people had to either memorize them directly or attempt to learn Latin, which not many succeeded at particularly well.

Harry, obviously, had an advantage there. He still had to learn the Runic symbols and all the rules to the language, not to mention eventually have an instinctive grasp on when something was _wrong_ , but he was sure that with enough time and practice, he would be as good at them as he was at Latin. He was, after all, a very dedicated person to that which interested him, and Runes was definitely interesting enough.

He fell asleep that night clutching the Runes book to his chest, feeling lighter than he ever remembered at the vast swathe of possibilities he could feel unfurling under his hands, thrumming under his skin like his magic.


	6. Absconde

Minerva McGonagall gave a tired sigh as she gave one last look around her. Everything was prepared for the arrival of the new first-years. Usually, she wouldn’t be as nervous; she had been doing this for a while, after all, and it was all pretty routine. This year, however, there was a spot on the map.

The Chosen One. The Saviour of the Wizarding World. The Vanisher of the Dark Lord.

Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter, was coming to Hogwarts this morning, and Minerva really wasn’t sure what to do about that. On one hand, she knew she would treat him as she would any other student; how could she not? She was, above all, a fair-minded person, and did not believe the boy’s actions deserved he be treated differently, however grateful she was to him for them. Albus supported this point of view; Minerva frowned slightly as she thought of the older wizard. Although she deeply respected Albus, she found that there were certain decisions which she did not agree with, as well as certain aspects of his personality she found slightly off.

The choice of the Potter heir’s…accommodations had not given her any good feelings the first time, nor any subsequent time she had visited the growing boy, although she had to admit it had not been often.

She was actually quite worried about the boy’s living situation; she had observed that the boy did not go to school, although the reason for this was not obvious. His relationship with his relatives was strained, at best; he clearly had few, if any, friends and none that Minerva had observed directly. She hoped that he’d find friends here at Hogwarts; it couldn’t be healthy for a child not to have friends growing up, not to mention simply a depressing prospect for Lily and James’ son, two people for whom Minerva felt quite a bit of affection.

The evident sound of Hagrid’s impending arrival at the castle’s entrance brought her out of her thoughts, and she composed herself so as to not allow her expression to betray her worries. She’d see how Potter got along with the children, and attempt to help him along if needed, as she would for any of the other children under her care. The idea that the boy might not be a Gryffindor never crossed her mind; both Lily and James had been Gryffindors, after all, and she could not imagine that Harry could be all that different from them.

A few moments later, Hagrid’s great body came into view, followed by a swarm of tiny first-years; Minerva couldn’t help trying to identify the Potter heir among them.

He was quickly identified; his dark, unruly hair which looked almost identical to James’ was easy to spot. However, it was his brilliant green eyes which truly set him apart from the group in Minerva’s opinion; they were a bright emerald which looked remarkably like Lily’s had, and Minerva felt her chest tighten slightly as nostalgia overtook her for a moment. She shook off the feeling a moment later, moving her gaze away from him so as to not be so obvious. She noted abruptly that he was talking quietly to a boy with very distinctive blonde hair; the newest Malfoy to join Hogwarts, no doubt. How odd to see a Potter and a Malfoy getting along, was her next thought. She shook her head and straightened. She was not to get lost in the situation of a single student, no matter how important he might be.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid, smiling at her. She nodded firmly.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

She then led the first-years to a small chamber off to the side of the Entrance Hall to give the standard welcome speech. All through it, she did her best to keep her eyes off the Potter heir, focusing instead on a smaller boy who had his cloak fastened under his left ear, and a gangly, distinctively red-head child. The latest Weasley, then. She could only hope he would not be like his twin brothers, although from his less-than-spotless appearance she could not guess at much decorum.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," she said, finally coming to the end of the speech and hoping that some of it at least would set the children at ease. "Please wait quietly."

She exited the chamber, closing the door behind her, and made her way to the Great Hall. Albus met her at the entrance, smiling with twinkling eyes.

“Everything alright, Minerva? I trust you can handle the new first-years?”

Minerva nodded. “As usual, Albus. Is everything in order at the Hall for the Sorting?”

“Quite.”

They were silent for a moment, then Albus’ expression turned slightly more serious.

“Is Harry Potter here?”

She nodded again. “Yes. Albus…” she paused, taking in a deep breath. “He looks so much like James, but his eyes are Lily’s. He’s quite a sight, that child.”

Albus gave her an understanding look. “No matter what happens, Minerva, you must not allow his parentage to cloud your judgment on him.”

She huffed, indignant. “Nonsense, Albus. You know I would never treat a child differently due to who their parents were!”

He raised his hands in a placating manner. “Of course not, Minerva. But we all know Harry is a special case. We must all be more careful than usual with that child.”

She deflated. “You know I will do my best, as I always have with all children.”

He nodded, his expression once again benign. “That I do. I can only hope all the other teachers will be as fair as you, Minerva.”

She frowned lightly, pursing her lips. “Severus will undoubtedly find it hard to bear.”

Albus nodded. “I have spoken to him. He will attempt not to let it affect him, but we must be understanding of his situation.”

“I am not saying that I do not understand his position, Albus. I am well aware of how much he suffered under James’ reign.” She shot him an accusing glare, to which Albus’s expression turned saddened. Minerva had made it very clear that she greatly disapproved of how Albus had dealt with James’ and Severus’ relationship, but the truth was that Albus did not know how else he could have handled it. Children could be cruel, especially those raised under the impression of power and omnipotence, such as James Potter. It was part of the reason why he had insisted that Harry be raised by his non-magical relatives. It meant he would not grow to be the kind of teenager that James had been. The late Potter Lord had been a good person at heart, but it had taken Lily’s love and many years for it to truly come to light, and even then he still always kept an arrogance and pride which made dealing with him difficult at times.

“I regret the situation as much as you do, Minerva; we can take solace in the fact that Severus now has his life under his control, at least.”

“Paltry solace, that,” she said, but the fight seemed to have left her. “I will go retrieve the first-years. Excuse me, Albus.”

With that, she returned to the room and brought out the students, leading them to the Hall where the Sorting Ceremony would take place.

 

* * *

 

Harry had, after the first week in the Cauldron, decided that it was not worth the trouble of returning to Privet Drive, where his freedom would be cut short by the Dursleys. He had arranged with Tom for a longer stay – until the school year started, only two weeks later – and then returned to the Muggle world to announce to his relatives the situation. The Dursleys had at first refused to allow him to go, but once Harry had explained that they would not need to pay for anything, and in fact would probably not need to see him at all for the next few years they accepted the compromise. Their original cover-story for why Harry was not attending school in Muggle London was that he had a ‘special condition’, and so was being home-schooled. Now, they could claim his condition had gotten worst and had had to send him to relatives abroad to get better care. Harry didn’t much care for how they justified his strange behavior, as long as they did not present him with any obstacles in his attendance to Hogwarts.

Next he’d gone to talk to Sandy. At first, he’d considered telling her the truth, but after a bit more of investigating into the subject of the history between Muggles and Wizards, had decided against it. It was apparently quite illegal, not to mention dangerous, and so instead had told her that he was being sent by his relatives to a boarding school abroad because they didn’t want to have to deal with him.

She’d cried a little, hugging him and asking him to write every once in a while. He hugged her back briefly, before promising to do as she asked. She’d wiped her eyes, then taken out the copy of the _Satyricon_ that she’d promised him.

“Here. Let this be a parting gift from me. You can keep the Divine Comedy, as well. I’m pretty sure you appreciate those books more than anyone else I know,” she said, smiling with a watery look in her eyes.

Harry blinked, before giving her another, longer hug. He really did care for her, despite being unable to tell her of anything else about magic. What little he’d already revealed was dangerous enough.

They promised to stay in touch, and Harry once again left for the Leaky Cauldron, the new book tucked under his arm.

He’d talked to Tom about how he was going to get to Hogwarts, and he’d been told that he had to go to “King’s Cross, then to Platform ¾, on the 1st of September. The train will take you directly to Hogwarts.”

Harry looked confused. “I’m sorry. Did you just say Platform ¾?”

Tom laughed. “Yes, lad. ¾. Never been there, I take it? Don’t worry, it’s nothing complicated. There will be a barrier right between  Platforms 9 and 10, and you pass through it to get to 9 ¾. You’ll be getting a ticket to get on the train any day now, it’ll all be there.”

When Harry had first asked for lodging for the next two weeks, Tom had looked at him oddly. Harry immediately knew he had to make an excuse; it was undoubtedly not a normal occurrence for a small child to be requesting lodging for such a long time.

“It’s my family, sir,” he’d said, looking very sad. Tom had stiffened at this; he was obviously aware of the fate of Harry’s parents. “They…I…after what happened with You-Know-Who…there has been a bit of trouble and I…it was made clear that it was best if I stayed away for a while.” He looked up at the barman with wide eyes, who looked vaguely angry for Harry’s sake and exceedingly guilty at asking. Internally, Harry smirked. His voice dropped even lower, like he was embarrassed at his admission.

“I don’t mean to be a bother, sir, I’m very sorry. I understand it must be troublesome having me here…you have been so kind. I’m sure I could find lodging elsewhere.” Tom’s eyes widened even further and he seemed torn between feeling extremely saddened and angry at himself for even questioning Harry’s stay. _Hook, line and sinker._

The bar-owner had made no questions after that, and had treated Harry even nicer. Harry didn’t really care for it all, but welcomed the change as long as it meant his past and decisions were not looked into. He’d gotten his ticket for the train a few days later, and had tucked it safely into his trunk; that answered the nagging worry he'd had that the man at the post office had not actually sent his letter, at least.

Harry had also finally resolved the issue about his wand, although it had been much more trouble than he’d initial thought it would be.

 

* * *

 

He’d first visited Flourish and Blotts again, looking for a book on wands and wand-making techniques. After a while of searching and being unable to find anything, he’d asked Mr. Blotts; the owner had informed him solemnly that they did not carry books on the subject.

“It is very carefully guarded knowledge, young man. Wands are a special business that only those from certain families follow. Why do you think Ollivander is the only wand-maker around here? It’s not like there isn’t room for competition, after all.”

Harry perked, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “Sir, are there any other wand-makers around?”

Mr.Blotts looked at him curiously, although Harry could tell he was distracted by the sight of a small child making its precarious way around the shop.

“What would you want to do with another wand-maker? Ollivander is the best there is.”

Harry shrugged. “Just curious. I mean, he can’t be the only one, can he?”

Mr. Blotts didn’t really seem to be paying attention to what he was saying. “He isn’t, although he’s the only one most people go to. He’s the only one in Diagon Alley…I think there’s one in Knockturn, but obviously no one wants to go _there_ …there might be others out…in Square…” then suddenly he was walking away from Harry hurriedly to where the child was about to knock over a huge pile of books. Harry shook his head, wanting to ask about Knockturn but, having the information he wanted and not willing to brave the growing commotion by the child, exited the shop.

He stood outside for a moment, conflicted about his options. He really didn’t want to go to Hogwarts with a conspicuously red wand; from Lucius and Narcissa’s expressions when they’d seen the wand, Harry guessed that it was fairly recognizable. He had two choices, then; the first was going to this ‘Knockturn Alley’ and trying to find the other wand-maker and seeing if he had any wand which could fit Harry. He could go to Ollivander’s; there was that one wand which fit him decently, but the man made him really uncomfortable. At worst, he wouldn’t find anything in Knockturn, and so he’d go to Ollivander’s.

The second option, which Harry honestly felt more comfortable with, if not sure about, was simply experimenting on his own until something worked out. Usually, he’d choose the latter without a second thought, but he was hesitant to experiment on something which he had no knowledge on, such as wands. Those were the kinds of experiments that were liable to get you hurt, and with something as volatile as he knew magic could be on the line, Harry _really_ wasn’t sure about what could be safe.

Eventually, he decided checking out the other wand-maker couldn’t hurt. He cast a quick ‘ _Effugiat’_ , then murmured “ _Dirige me at_ Knockturn Alley.”

His magic twisted for a moment, then fizzed out. Harry shook his head. He hadn’t thought that would work, but he’d had to try anyway. Just saying ‘Knockturn Alley’ was way too general, and his magic, of course, didn’t know how to guide him to the entirety of the Alley. He thought for moment.

“ _Dirige me proximum aedificatio_ _at_ Knockturn Alley,” he murmured, and this time his magic twisted and then tugged insistently to his left. He followed the tug around Diagon Alley, through a twisting, winding path. Sometimes his magic tried to pull him through a building and Harry had to find a way around it, but it took him no longer than 5 minutes until he was suddenly standing in front of what was clearly the entrance to a different section of the city; it smelled rank and somehow musty, despite being only a few feet away from the brightness of Diagon Alley, and Harry was suddenly very certain of why Mr. Blotts had said no one liked going here. He could sense an oddly unwelcoming breeze in the air, a sort of saturated depression and desperate violence which weighed down on his magic uncomfortably.

Now that he was faced with his option, he was no longer sure it was such a good idea. Sure, he could probably get to the shop unnoticed, but eventually he’d have to expose himself, and he wasn’t too willing to risk his neck for the sake of something he wasn’t even sure would work. He stood outside the entrance to Knockturn Alley for a few more moments before resolutely turning away and walking back the way he’d come. He’d go to Ollivander’s and see if the wizard would sell him the light-wood wand which he’d also picked on his first try; he wasn’t ecstatic about the idea, but it was the only one which seemed would not end with him in a hospital.

He walked quickly back to Ollivander’s, taking careful note of where the entrance to Knockturn was in regards to Diagon Alley; he dispelled the ‘ _Effugiat_ ’ just before entering, not sure if Ollivander would be able to see through it but not willing to chance another reaction like Gornuk’s. Already one person…creature…knowing was enough.

He entered the little shop and bit back a small yelp as Ollivander suddenly appeared in front of him; the man’s lack of magic was as distinctive as ever, and as uncomfortable.

“Mr. Potter. I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. What can I help you with? Is there a problem with your wand?”

Harry shook his head, controlling his nerves. “No, sir, not as such. I do have a bit of a concern about it, though. I couldn’t help but notice, it’s quite a…unique wand, isn’t it?”

Ollivander nodded solemnly, and Harry got the distinct sense that the man had been expecting this response. “That it is, Mr. Potter, although I am not sure you yet understand the true extent of blood wood’s power. However, it seems you are…discomfited by its quite exceptional appearance?” He seemed amused at Harry’s expense. Harry nodded, storing away the man’s words for further investigation later.

“I know that sounds rather like a shallow worry, but it is quite a concern for me.” Ollivander gave no response and Harry tried to conceal his nervousness. He really didn’t like being around the man; his dislike at being noticed seemed somehow immature and shallow here, despite the fact that Harry felt that if he wished to remain inconspicuous he had every right to attempt to do so. It was no one else’s business what he did and what he thought; he felt attached to the blood-wand, he really did, but he didn’t see why everyone else should have to notice it so clearly.

Ollivander watched him closely for a few moments.

“You want another wand,” he then said, slowly, somehow seemingly surprised at the turn of events. Harry nodded, unsure why Ollivander viewed the request as odd. Was having more than one wand illegal? The thought hadn’t really occurred to him until now, although it made sense. If everyone had 50 wands, then all security measures against criminals would be rather a moot point.

“I mean, it isn’t illegal, is it?” he asked, hurriedly. Ollivander seemed unsure of how to answer.

“It isn’t…strictly speaking. It is quite frowned upon by the ministry, and of course this is taking into account the fact that the wizard could even _find_ more wands which fit him properly. Most wizards only find one, _maybe_ two, and even then it will never work as well as the first.”

That made sense. “I…there was one other wand here that I know I could work with. It doesn’t feel quite as right as this one, but…I could do with it. And what do you mean not ‘strictly illegal?’”

Ollivander looked at him curiously. “It isn’t illegal, but if they find out you have it they will make you jump through a lot of hoops if you wish to keep it; after all, the kind of wizard who wishes to have two wands is usually not the kind of wizard above using them less to break the law.”

Harry frowned, catching onto what Ollivander was not saying. “Do I have to register my wand when I go to Hogwarts? I mean, are you going to register my having bought another wand? Have you even registered my first wand?”

Ollivander smiled faintly. “No, Mr. Potter. To all your questions. I am not part of the Ministry, nor will I ever be. As for Hogwarts…it is not proper for a wizard to be asked to register his wand unless it is necessary under the circumstances. As long as you told no one, and didn’t go against the law, no one would have to find out.”

Harry really didn’t like the way Ollivander was looking at him, like he was some sort of prey. He was also exceedingly uncertain as to why Ollivander was telling him all this. It seemed like the man _wanted_ Harry to get the wand, although for what reason, Harry could not fathom. Usually he was so good at reading people, at making them see what he wanted them to see; somehow he felt like Ollivander could see right through him, and Harry could only see those misty eyes.

“What was the other wand you felt you could do with?” Ollivander asked, motioning over to the wall with all the wands. Having already felt the magic once, Harry easily identified the light-wood wand’s box and pulled it out.

Ollivander took the box and pulled the wand out. His expression suddenly became one of surprise, then a sort of amused interest that had the hair on Harry’s nape standing on edge.

“Curious. How very curious,” he murmured. Harry frowned.

“What do you mean? What’s curious?” He was sick and tired of being surprised. Couldn’t he just have a normal time for once since getting here?

Ollivander seemed to pick up on his annoyance. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in this wand, gave another feather –just one other. It is very curious indeed that this wand should also chose you when its brother… why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry felt his throat go dry. “You mean, Voldemort?” He could feel a vague sort of panic brewing in his gut. “That’s who has this wand’s brother, isn’t it? You’ve got to be joking!” He wanted to kick something. Of _course_ he would have the brother wand to Voldemort’s.

Ollivander looked at him with an expression which seemed to be torn between glee and pity, a most curious look on anyone. “It seems you are indeed destined for great things, Mr. Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes – but great.”

Harry wanted to scream, but contained himself.

“You know what, I don’t think I want this wand anymore,” he said irritably, turning around with every intention of leaving the shop. Maybe he could simply paint over his blood-wand or something. If anyone asked he’d say he was ‘artistically inclined’.

“Mr. Potter.”

Ollivander’s soft words stopped him in his tracks.

“You cannot hide forever, Mr. Potter.”

Harry felt himself shiver. “I’m not hiding. I’m simply not…being this. Whatever you want me to be, this…Savior. The Chosen One. I’m not being him, I _am_ not him, I’m just Harry Potter, I just..” _really like Latin._

He didn’t hear any movement behind him, but suddenly Ollivander’s voice was right behind him.

“And that is precisely what I mean. Do you think this wand chose you because of your scar? Do you think your blood wand chose you because of events that you had no choice in, and that you cannot remember?”

Harry swerved and glared. “Are you saying they didn’t?”

Ollivander did not answer, but something in his expression made all of Harry’s anger flee, replaced by a kind of tired acceptance which Harry had come to associate with the dreams he’d had of ever being rescued from the Dursleys before he’d discovered his magic. Ollivander handed out the box with the phoenix-core wand, and Harry took it meekly.

“Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple; a rather unusual combination. That will be 7 Galleons.”

Harry paid him and, without another word, left the shop. Well, at least he’d gotten what he’d come for.

 

* * *

 

Apart from his wand, he’d also finally managed to understand what the Hogwarts letter had meant by “an owl”; they meant, of course, a literal owl and after some deliberation Harry had decided to buy one for himself. It was a large, black barn owl, which he’d whimsically named Aeolus after the Greek god of wind.

He’d met the Malfoys once again at the train station; he’d followed Tom’s instructions with a little trepidation, but had managed to get to the station without any mishaps. Draco had been quite happy to see him again, much more than Harry had honestly expected him to be; they’d only met for a few hours, after all. Draco’s face had split into a wide grin as they’d met on the entrance to the train, only managing to contain it after a few seconds behind his pure-blood mask. Lucius and Narcissa had been as pleasant as before, although they were much more subdued and proper in front of all the other Wizarding families. They’d talked for a little while outside the train, about their respective activities the past weeks. Harry didn’t contribute much, merely stating he’d invested his time in reading a lot and preparing for classes. Draco was perfectly content to fill the silence, telling him about the family trip to France and the various galas and activities he’d attended.

When it was time for the train to leave, they bid Draco’s parents goodbye and got on. They quickly found an empty compartment and settled in. A few minutes after the train had departed, Harry took out his holly wand. For a moment, Draco looked confused, before he suddenly looked up at Harry.

“What happened to your blood wand?” he asked. Harry sighed.

“I need to talk to you about that. Look, you know bloodwood isn’t…common, right?”

Draco nodded, looking unsure. “My parents explained it a bit. I’d never heard of blood-wands before, although I had heard of blood magic. It’s quite a bit more powerful that regular magic, especially in the case of rituals and the like. Unfortunately, the Ministry considers blood magic to be largely dark, and so people with blood wands as well.”

Harry froze. “What do you mean? Why is blood magic considered Dark?” Something seemed to nag at his memory, like a sense of having forgotten something important. Harry tried to think about it, but it seemed to slip away until he was no longer sure what he’d been trying to remember. Well, if it was important, he’d remember eventually.

He wasn’t exactly sure what being ‘Dark’ meant, but it seemed to be frowned upon. The ‘Dark Lord’ fiasco certainly seemed to point in that direction, although Harry wasn’t sure why that was. He was against the idea that anything or anyone could be intrinsically bad; things and people could only be bad in context, when they went against a goal of some sort. He was particularly skeptical about tools being bad, and so far, magic didn’t really seem like much more than a tool for anything. Was uranium intrinsically bad, because it was radioactive and caused mutations and death? Or was it intrinsically good, because it provided huge amounts of energy? Or would it be good as long as it was only causing mutations and death in the enemy?

He accepted, however, that he didn’t really know much about magic; for all he knew, some of it might in fact be intrinsically bad, although he wasn’t sure how that would work. He did concede that if _anything_ could be bad in and of itself, magic was the likeliest candidate. After all, _magic._ However, what really worried him was the opinion of those around him. Even though he might not think anything was evil, other people might not agree, and there went his freedom and privacy.

Draco shrugged. “Probably because it was used largely for illegal activities. I mean, it’s the Ministry that decides what is Dark and what isn’t, and they are supposed to stand for the Law. Obviously that doesn’t mean they are always right, or that blood magic is Dark…however that is decided. But it does mean that blood magic is carefully regulated, and the owners of blood wands observed, no matter what they’ve actually done or not.”

Harry looked at Draco curiously, relaxing. Sometimes the blond seemed quite shallow; others, he seemed surprisingly smart and introspective. He supposed having parents like Lucius and Narcissa would make a child rather more mature than his years.

Draco looked at him. “So what’s with that wand? Did you exchange it?”

Harry shook his head. “I went to Ollivander’s. He was quite willing to give me another one which I’d felt an affinity to, although he was quite odd about it. But Draco, I need you not to tell anyone. The whole point of getting another wand was that the blood wand will not be known. I don’t want that kind of attention.”

Draco looked at him with a shocked expression on his face. “You have two wands? He just _gave_ you another one? Just like that?”

“Er…we talked a bit. But, yes. Is that not…usual?”

Draco huffed. “Of course not! Otherwise we’d all be running around with two wands; do you have any idea the kind of chaos that would cause for the Ministry? Not to mention for the Aurors. How did you convince him to give you another wand? It’s not money or influence; my father’s tried that.”

Harry nearly snorted. Of course Lucius would try that. The man was a politician to the core.

“No…I honestly don’t really know. I didn’t say anything much; I think he was just interested in the fact that I had bonded with the blood-wand, and so was willing to make an exception.” He wasn’t sure why, but he was unwilling to tell Draco about the holly wand’s connection to Voldemort. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him, but he just wanted to pretend to be a little normal, just a little. He could already see it all coming to bite him in the arse later, but he pretended not to care. Having two wands was already incredible enough, apparently.

Draco nodded, looking thoughtful but accepting that Harry really didn’t know. “Ollivander’s always been a bit odd. I don’t think anyone understands his motivations, or his alliances.”

They were silent for a little while before Draco placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone. I understand the importance of secrecy in delicate matters.” He seemed to say the last part a bit bitterly, and Harry wondered what other secrets the blonde was forced to keep. “Of course, if you ever need help with the blood wand, I’ll try to lend a hand.”

Harry nodded, thankful for the blonde’s assistance. There was a kind of calm genuineness to his magic while making the promise that made Harry certain of the blonde’s sincerity. If nothing else, Harry believed Draco’s understanding of the need for secrecy in certain matters. People did not become so bitter, so young, over nothing.

The seriousness dissolved slowly as the train ride continued, eventually delving into lighter topics such as Draco’s trip and what Hogwarts would be like. Harry confided that he’d read a lot on Potions, which clearly pleased the blonde. Draco told Harry all he knew of the Hogwarts Houses, making it clear that he hoped Harry would be in Slytherin with him. Harry admitted he wasn’t sure.

“I mean, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to be in Slytherin with you, but I don’t know it’s the right House for me.” He didn’t say he wasn’t sure he’d want to be considered Dark. He was apparently considered a sort of Light Symbol after his defeat of the Dark Lord; he didn’t want to be a symbol for the Light, but being in Slytherin would be too obvious a dissent. Ravenclaw seemed safest, all things considered.

There were only a few interruptions on their ride to the castle, once by a bushy-haired girl that tried to request their help with finding a toad – which Draco had firmly pushed out without an answer – and once by the trolley-lady. They eventually changed into their Hogwarts robes as they approached the castle, preparing for their arrival. Harry tried to contain his nerves. Here they were; there was no looking back now, no chance to regret his choice.

 

* * *

 

Inside the castle, Albus Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles and gazed outside the window in the direction of where arriving students were congregating. On his perch, Fawkes observed the older wizard with bright eyes.

_Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos! I am absolutely stumped by the response to this story; I am so glad everyone's having as much fun reading this as I am writing it. Writing isn't half as much fun as when you know others are also enjoying it, so I'm really glad everyone seems to be doing so :)


	7. Conuenientias

The castle itself was every bit as marvelous as Harry had hoped it would be, and more; the first glimpse he’d caught of it had shocked him so, that it had taken Draco’s subtle laughter to realize that his mouth was wide open. He blushed and closed it, shooting a half-hearted glare at the blonde, who smiled back.

They had congregated around a large man who was shouting for “firs’ years!” and then went down a winding, narrow passage which ended at the foot of a great lake. There they all had their first view of Hogwarts; Harry was glad to see he was not the only one shocked into silence at the view. They then clambered onto a small fleet of boats, which took them to a small harbor at the foot of the castle. They all walked up a set of stone staircases, finally arriving at the castle door. The large man knocked three times on the castle doors, which opened at once. Harry turned to Draco.

“Who is he?”

Draco’s nose crinkled slightly. “I think his name’s Hagrid. My father told me something about him; he’s some sort of caretaker.”

Harry nodded, turning to look at the stern-faced woman that had appeared at the castle doors.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall."

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take it from here," she said.

She then guided the small group into a chamber where she proceeded gave a small speech. Harry wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but throughout the lecture she seemed to be trying very hard not to look in his direction; her magic swerved around her, sometimes a tendril drifting over towards Harry before being swiftly pulled back. He contained a sigh; it seemed even at school he’d be noticed.

Thankfully, she never directly centered her attention on him, which he was grateful for. She left the room for a moment, during which they were suddenly invaded by ghosts. This turned out rather less exiting than Harry would have perhaps liked, all things considered, since all the ghosts were well-behaved, if some rather unnerving.

Eventually, McGonagall returned and lead them all through a pair of much larger doors, and into the Great Hall.

Harry couldn’t contain a small gasp as he took in the beautiful room; the ceiling looked like the night sky, dark and dotted with stars. The hall was lit by thousands of small candles floating about in the air, and for a moment Harry had the strange thought that it would be very easy for an accident to take place with so many potential fire hazards. There were four large tables which were filled with students, and at the head of the room was another large table, behind which were seated a group of people who were clearly Professors. Harry’s eyes were drawn to the man sitting at the center, an older wizard with long white hair and an even longer beard, and who had more magic flitting around him than Harry had even thought possible. Even Lucius, who Harry already thought had quite a bit of magic, didn’t have even a quarter of what this man had. And Harry was certain that this was the famed Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and Leader of the Light, that he’d read about.

He was caught off guard by a sudden vicious snap of magic next to Dumbledore, and his eyes drifted to the man sitting to his side; he had very black hair, sallow skin, a hooked nose and eyes which glared at Harry with such intense dislike that Harry was momentarily taken aback. He stared back for a moment, unable to look away from the man’s black eyes; then, the Professor seemed to catch himself and turned away from Harry, going back to talking with the man sitting next to him. Harry blinked a few times.

 _That was unexpected_.

His attention was drawn away from the man by McGonagall making them all stand in a line in front of the High Table, facing the other students. He stood next to Draco, with a brown-haired girl at his other side. McGonagall then brought out a four-legged stool, upon which she placed a patched, frayed and rather dirty hat.

Harry had a moment to wonder at the magic he could feel humming strongly about the Hat when suddenly, a rip appeared all along the hat’s rim and it began to sing;

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

Everyone clapped as the hat finished his song, some of the new students still staring at the Hat with gob-smacked expressions of wonder.

Harry, meanwhile, was torn between awe and panic. He could certainly appreciate the Hat's ability not only to sing, but apparently _think_ for itself - _-_ he couldn't even begin to fathom how one would go about crafting such an object; how could it speak through a mouth without vocal cords or a tongue? Was it merely an illusion created by careful coordination between magically-produced sounds and the Hat's 'mouth'? Was it actually alive? Or was it simply a clever simulation of intelligence, like a parrot that learned certain phrases which gave it the illusion of understanding? Harry had never tried giving anything life; his instincts screamed at him that it would be a Bad Idea, and Harry trusted his instincts enough that he wouldn't dare try it until he at least knew a bit more about the topic.

Besides, it wasn't like he explicitly wanted to give something life; it was more the principle of the thing, an interesting experiment. He didn't even want to go into the moral quandaries that would come with giving something life through magic; such could clearly only be a temporary acquisition, and was it murder to remove the magic from a being which substisted on magic which was not its own?

The Hat did look rather old, though, Harry thought. How much magic did it take to make it appear alive? Perhaps it was only rarely animated? A dormant illusion of intellect?

There was one thing which bothered him about the Hat's song; this was mostly due to the particular situation he now found himself in, that of being about to partake in the Sorting.

Had it said it would be able to _see into their heads?_

McGonagall walked up next to the stool with a roll of parchment in her hands.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be Sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"

Harry wasn’t really paying attention to where each student was going, too busy starting to panic a bit. Could the Hat really read his mind? His memories? Would it be able to tell if he knew Latin? What about his wandless magic? And his blood wand? And the other wand’s connection to Voldemort? And the fact that he even _had_ two wands? And his ability to see magic?

He took a deep breath, his eyes moving over the heads of all the other student in the hall. More importantly, would the Hat tell anyone? Did Harry have some sort of right to privacy? Were rights not a thing in the Wizarding World? Harry really hoped that rights were a thing. Rights were one of those things he liked.

He noted faintly that Draco had, as expected, been placed in Slytherin, and managed to clap for the blonde. It felt like it was much too soon when he heard "Perks, Sally-Anne" being sorted in Gryffindor, and then…

“Potter, Harry.”

Abruptly, there was poignant hush from everyone in the hall. Harry carefully hid his panic, resigned to his fate, and walked out the front of the group of first years and advanced towards where Professor McGonagall held the Sorting Hat. Her expression was carefully controlled, but her magic was unsettled and choppy. Harry shot a look at Draco before sitting on the stool. He could see all eyes on him for a moment before the hat covered his sight.

“Hmm...difficult, very difficult,” said a small voice, which Harry realized abruptly was speaking  _inside his head_. He heard a chuckle from the mysterious voice at his clear shock.

“Do not be startled, child. I am the Sorting Hat,” the voice said.

Harry swallowed thickly.

“Can you read my mind?”

“Well, of course.” The hat sounded vaguely amused. “How else would I go about this? Now...”

Harry couldn't help himself from asking quickly; “If I can hear you, does that mean I can read _your_ mind?”

The hat was silent for a moment before Harry got a very distinct sense of approval which took him a moment to realize was not his own.

“That's...one way to put it,” the hat said, sounding amused.

It was silent for a small while; however, Harry could feel the hat's interest growing with every passing moment. Then the hat gave a small chuckle.

“My, my, how very interesting. It has been a while since I have seen anyone who could truly speak the Old Tongue. And your _magic_ ; totally wandless, how positively fascinating! My, and a blood wand...? Oh dear, don’t worry, there’s no need to panic; any and all things I see in a student's head are kept entirely _sub rosa_.”

The Latin words helped loosen something in Harry; his chest had closed up uncomfortably at the Hat’s first observation on his magic.

“Now, where to place you? Let's see...yours is an avid, extraordinary mind which loves knowledge; you are also hard-working and disapprove of narrow-mindedness on principle. You will often place yourself in the way of danger for a cause you feel is worthy...you are also, however, an inherently practical person, avid at manipulating those around you and unafraid of long-term planning. Difficult, very difficult.” The hat gave a thoughtful hum.

“It is very rare that I find someone so suited to all the houses; the last case was about 50 years ago, if I recall correctly.” The Hat paused again and, when it continued, its voice was somehow careful. “I believe, Mr. Potter, that I must take a rather unorthodox approach towards your Sorting. As you are probably quite aware, the process is usually rather one-sided; however, for various reasons, I feel that your case requires that you make a decision regarding where you believe you should be sorted. It's nothing to be alarmed about, you are not the first to be made to decide. Now, what is your preference?"

Harry felt a frisson of unease wind through him, although the knowledge that he wasn't the only person to be asked did help calm him somewhat; he was slightly curious as to who the others were, but didn't think the Hat would tell him and he couldn't think of another way to find out.

For a moment he thought about asking to be placed in Ravenclaw; it would definitely make his life easier. Problem was, Harry wasn't sure he _wanted_ easier. The hat seemed to agree with this thought, and so Harry decided to just be truthful.

“I don't really have one, to be honest; I feel it’s all quite vague. I mean, I don’t think I’d be a good fit for Gryffindor. I’m not particularly chivalrous or honour-bound, no matter how willing I am to mangle myself in my experiments. Hufflepuff would be alright, I expect, except that Draco would probably never talk to me again and, honestly, the only thing I’m loyal to is myself. Ravenclaw seems a good choice, but from what I’ve heard it seems all they _do_ is read, and while I do love books and knowledge I’d go mad if I couldn’t actually _apply_ all I’d learned.” He shifted lightly. “Slytherin seems like it would be the best choice, except I'm not very ambitious...and it's clear I'd be hounded at every turn for it.”

The hat was silent for a moment.

“What do you care what other people think?”

Harry frowned. “Pardon?”

The hat seemed to huff in a deliberately long-suffering manner. “You are already famous. Are you going to decide your life based on what other’s opinions of you are? You are already hiding what you think and what you can do from most people; at what point will that begin to weigh down on you, do you think? There is greatness within you, Mr. Potter, and Slytherin would help you on your way to greatness. You cannot hide forever.”

Ollivander’s words rang in his ears like a premonition, and he tried to calm his suddenly shaky hands.

The Hat’s words rang true within him; he was aware that part of him chafed at the idea that he might be limited in his intellectual pursuits by others’ opinions of him. He’d learned quickly that some people discriminated solely on the basis of what information you knew, regardless of whether you agreed with it or not. He’d had an easy time of it before Hogwarts, when no one knew who he was and no one much cared what he did; he’d had as much freedom as anyone could wish for. Now, people clearly expected things from him for something he couldn’t remember doing and probably had had no control over.

There are only two kinds of people who have the freedom to do all they will; those that have nothing, and those that need nothing. Harry had always considered himself firmly in the second group, but he was coming to the conclusion that, actually, he’d been rather more firmly in the first. As the unwanted nephew of the Dursleys, with no friends or possessions of value, he’d had nothing to lose. Now, surrounded by fascinating possibilities that Harry nonetheless suspected were privileges rather than rights – and as such could be taken away if he was found lacking – he found himself booted out of the first category. For the first time in his life, he really felt like he had something to lose; it was at once a stabilizing and enlightening thought, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I have no desire to be great, or have fame or power. My greatest wish is simply to be left alone to experiment and learn as much as I can; I am probably the least ambitious person ever to step into this school.”

“Why, Mr. Potter. You are the most ambitious wizard I think I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

Harry made a disbelieving noise. “Are you not _listening_ to me? I just –”

“Your ambition is, however, unlike most others,” the Hat interrupted cleanly. “It is the purest kind, the rarest and most powerful.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“That is not for me to tell you, but for you to find out.” Harry frowned at the hat’s confusing words and useless answer, feeling as if he was being left in that dark from important information, something he’d never liked feeling. “Now, where will you go?

“You are the Sorting Hat, are you not? You asked for my opinion, and I gave you it. Now place me as you see fit,” he snapped, trying to contain his frustration with his situation and failing. He could feel a vague sense of panic unfurling in his gut at the hat’s impending decision.

The hat chuckled lightly, apparently not insulted at his surly response. “I am indeed the Sorting Hat,” he said, “and as such, I place you in…SLYTHERIN!”

Harry hadn’t thought it was possible for the Hall to get quieter than it had when his name had first been called, but he was obviously wrong. The very air seemed to vibrate with the sudden stillness that permeated the Great Hall, from the grand doors to the back, where all the teachers sat.

Harry stood carefully, taking the hat off his head and passing it to McGonagall, who looked like she was about to faint, her face pale and her eyes wide. Harry turned to the Slytherin table and slowly began walking towards it in the utter, tomb-like silence, carefully keeping his hands from shaking too obviously. He really didn’t like being the center of attention.

Suddenly, there was a single clapping sound. Harry looked around and saw Draco was slowly clapping for him as he walked over to the table. A few moments later other people started joining in, until eventually by the time he sat down next to his blonde friend most of the Hall was clapping, if in a much more subdued manner than for all the previous first years. Some students, however, were shooting angry or shocked looks in his direction, which Harry ignored. He nodded his sincere thanks to Draco, who nodded back in understanding. He then turned back to the Head Table.

His eyes immediately narrowed back onto the dark-haired teacher. The man’s magic was even more agitated than it had been before, snapping about in a vaguely threatening manner. His dark eyes swept over the Slytherin table, landing on Harry’s for a moment; Harry blinked, and the teacher’s gaze swept past him. Harry turned to Draco.

“Who’s the Professor with dark hair sitting next to the one with the turban?”

Draco looked over. “Oh, that’s Severus Snape, my Godfather. He doesn’t look very happy right now; I guess he mustn’t be too pleased, he’s never liked these ceremonies much.” Harry refrained from telling him he suspected Snape didn’t seem like he liked Harry much, either. “We might get to meet him properly when we go down to the Common Room. I’m pleased you're in Slytherin with me; I know you said you weren’t sure, but I’m glad.” The blonde smiled lightly and Harry smiled back, feeling affection running through him at Draco’s blunt words.

“Well, I’m glad to be here with you, as well,” he said softly. Draco’s smiled widened, before abruptly falling off as he turned a cold glare at someone behind Harry.

“Would you mind not eavesdropping on our conversation? Such rude behavior should be beneath any person with proper manners. Perhaps you would feel more at home with the Gryffindors,” he said, his tone icy and making perfectly clear how pathetic he found the other Slytherins’ attempts at subtlety. Harry turned to see a group of other students turning quickly away from them looking fairly chastised, a couple burning red from shame. He smiled lightly as he turned back to Draco. He really did like the blonde.

 

* * *

 

The feast ended rather soon, in Harry's opinion; there were just so many things to take in! He marveled at the blatant displays of magic all around him; he was so used to magic being something he had to hide from everyone, a small thing he kept to quiet afternoons and secretive experiments, that seeing it shown-off so brazenly was rather refreshing. The Hat had been taken away by McGonagall soon after the last student was sorted. Harry resolved to find out what he could about it; it had certainly _seemed_ very much alive.

He hadn't spoken very much to the other students, although a few had attempted to draw him into conversation; he let Draco do most of the talking for him, the pure-blood perfectly happy to make their friendship clear to all those around them. Harry knew Draco was making some sort of power-play by flaunting his connection to the 'celebrated war-hero', although he couldn't exactly see what it was. Probably just laying the foundation for future plans, Harry thought fondly; how like his father.

They were led out of the Great Hall by two older students; Harry and Draco walked side-by-side, Draco telling Harry all he knew about Hogwarts.

“We'll be in the dungeons, of course,” he said. Harry looked at him with surprise. “Not like that; Slytherins have their dormitories in the dungeons...oh honestly, its not what it sounds like! My father's told me our accommodations are the best of the lot; there's a lot more space down here than in the towers, for one thing, so all our rooms are larger. We also have enchanted windows which usually show the Great Lake, but which you can enchant to basically anything. There's also...”

The walk down took about 10 minutes; Harry rather thought he would have gotten dreadfully lost in the first two. The castle was _huge,_ with winding corridors and nondescript walls...and the moving staircases and vanishing doors didn't help.

They stopped in front of a large statue of a snake; the prefect turned back to look at them.

“This is the entrance to your Dorms. You need a password to enter so don't forget it or you'll be locked out. The password changes every month. The current one is _Semper Purum.”_

Harry grinned. Finally proof that Latin existed in the Wizarding world! Even if the prefect _had_ mangled the pronounciation...

The snake statue made a small sound, and then moved sideways, revealing a dark passage which disappeared into the walls of the castle.

They all walked in through a rather narrow passage before coming out the other side to the view of a vast, magnificent room. Drapes with silver linings hung around the room, various silver adornments placed with care on splendidly crafted tables. There were various exquisite paintings placed strategically around the room, and armchairs situated in a tasteful arrangement, a cluster formed around a grand fire-place which warmed the otherwise cold stone walls. Above them hung a beautiful glass chandelier, lined with candles which Harry would bet were carefully carved into some kind of elegant shape. It was an absolutely stunning sight, and Harry had to once again swallow his shock at the unexpected grandeur of his new life. It was _nothing_ like what he could have ever imagined. He could see even Draco looking fairly awed.

The prefect allowed them a few moments of reverent silence before clearing his throat lightly.

“You may admire the Common Room as much as you wish later; now, the boys' rooms are up the left staircase, girls' on the right. Your trunks are lined along the corridors at the top; as first years, you will all room in pairs. You may decide your sleeping arrangements amongst yourselves. For those of you who brought owls, they had been taken up to the owlery; you may visit them when you wish. Now, breakfast tomorrow is at 7 am. You are all expected to be there on time, especially since tomorrow is the first day. You'll get your schedules then. Any questions?” No one said anything. “Good. My name is Gerard Pritchard. Welcome to Slytherin.” With that, he turned and walked off into one of the various corridors that led further into the Slytherin dorms.

No one moved. Harry looked after him for a moment before turning to Draco.

“Let's go grab a room,” he said. Draco nodded, and they went up the stair-case to the corridor where their rooms were, the other boys coming along behind them. They moved in to the room closest to the stairs; it offered less privacy, but Harry judged it more important to have clear access to and from the Common Room. In any case, spells could be placed to prevent anyone uninvited from entering and snooping around. Draco didn't question his choice, but Harry suspected the blonde was having similar thoughts.

None of the other students questioned their choice; Harry wondered if it was because of who he and Draco were, or simply because they'd gotten there first. Probably a combination of the two.

The rooms were much less lavish than the Common Room, although they were by no means shabby. There were two full beds, with deep-green covers and hangings which had elegant silver designs traced on them; two small tables and two desks, both intricately carved, and a door which Harry quickly discovered led to a rather large bathroom. They had one medium-sized window, which displayed a rather amazing view of the night-sky, as if they were in the highest tower of the castle rather than under the Lake.

Harry absolutely loved it all.

A part of him wanted to go back down and explore the Common Room further, perhaps simply stare at its beauty for a few minutes, but he eventually decided he was rather exhausted. Draco agreed that it would be better to sleep in earlier today; they'd have plenty of time to admire their living arrangements later, and it was important to give a good first impression tomorrow. They got ready for bed and within moments of laying down on his bed -–which was, amazingly, even more comfortable than it looked-- Harry had fallen fast asleep.


	8. Vindicetis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to say thank you to all of you; you are all so amazing! I'm really glad you all like this story so much; at least I hope you do? I'm having a lot of fun writing it! Thank you for all your comments and kudos; they make me feel very warm and fuzzy inside.
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to say I'm very sorry. So so very sorry. That was a terrible delay. I was suffering a terrible case of writers block and I am so very sorry.
> 
> Finally, if you see any errors, please don't hesitate to point them out! This story isn't beta-read, so sometimes they get by me, even if I do my best to sort them out.

Harry awoke the next morning with a vague sense of disorientation. It took him a few moments to remember he was no longer in his room at the Leaky Cauldron, but instead his lavish Slytherin quarters.

“ _Tempus_ ”, he murmured groggily, and immediately got the distinct sense that it was 6:04 in the morning. He sat up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and then went to his trunk to retrieve his clothes before slipping into the bathroom for a morning shower. 10 minutes later he was sitting back on his bed, dressed but barefoot, browsing over _Customs and Traditions._ He was determined to make a good first impression on the other children, and he didn’t want to either rely on or become a liability in any way to Draco.

At around 6:20 he heard shuffling from Draco’s bed, and a few minutes later the blond sat up on his bed, looking drowsy. Harry gave him a cheery smile when the boy turned to look at him. Draco groaned.

“Oh Merlin, you’re one of those morning people, aren’t you?”

Harry chuckled at the blonde’s surly tone, turning back to his book as Draco went about his morning routine.

They got to the Great Hall a few minutes before 7 after having gotten lost twice. Harry noted with amusement that Slytherin table was by far the one with most students, and in fact he and Draco were the only first-years there yet.

The rest of the Slytherin first-years trickled in slowly, and Harry noticed how a few of them nodded in acknowledgement of each other, before taking their seats in a manner which seemed to Harry too orderly to be random. He suspected they were all already acquainted with each other, probably all Purebloods, as Slytherin was known for. He’d gotten the same impression yesterday, but he’d been too distracted by the day’s events to make any attempt at socializing. He wasn’t exactly looking forwards to it all, but accepted that it was a necessary aspect of being a proper Lord. He wasn’t even going to touch the whole “Boy-Who-Lived” thing; the idea of being a ‘celebrity’ honestly made him vaguely nauseous. He was determined to as soon as possible disabuse any and all of his peers of the notion that what he’d done 10 years previous in any way affected his current life and choices. The girl who’d sat next to Draco immediately drew Draco into a conversation, which Harry ignored in favor of his cup of tea. Harry had also read that until either Draco introduced him or one of the others made to introduce themselves to him, it would be seen as poor manners for Harry to join a conversation suddenly.

After a few minutes of silence, the boy who’d sat next to Harry turned to him.  

“Blaise Zabini,” he said after a moment. His voice was soft, his expression somewhat sleepy except his eyes were sharp as a blade. He had dark skin and even darker hair; his eyes were a light green hue that bordered on grey, framed by long, dark lashes, and Harry’s first thought was that he was beautiful.

“Harry Potter,” he responded lightly as was the standard pureblood greeting, meeting Zabini’s eyes straight on. He didn’t know what it was, but something about Zabini made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Zabini’s magic was carefully controlled, giving no indication of how the boy was feeling apart from the clear tenseness. After a few moments, Zabini nodded as if acquiescing, before turning back to his breakfast. Harry turned back to his own plate, thankful that he'd managed to at least gain Zabini's approval.

Halfway through breakfast their schedules appeared suddenly beside their plates, and Harry noted that Slytherins had Charms as their first class that day, followed by Potions in the afternoon.

By the time breakfast was finished, Draco was starting to look more like himself. As they walked over to Charms, Draco formally introduced him to some of the other first-year Slytherins, while also surreptitiously giving him a very quick background run on them. They all accepted Harry without hestiation, and he wondered fleetingly if this was because he was a Potter, The-Boy-Who-LIved, Draco's friend, or all of the above.

“The Parkinsons are rather powerful, although obviously nowhere near us Malfoys,” Draco stated, gesturing towards Pansy Parkinson. “They are well-respected, relatively influential purebloods. Pansy herself is not who I would call the shining beacon of her family, but she is decent enough as an ally. She can be quite vicious when she wants to be, though, and I wouldn’t trust her as far as I can throw her…although I suppose you could say that of all Slytherins, really, so there’s that. And she wouldn’t dare go against me.

“Crabbe and Goyle are effectively my bodyguards; our families are connected such that they practically serve us and we provide them with protection and a certain amount of influence.” Harry turned to look at the two lumbering boys who had been following Draco around since yesterday. They didn’t seem particularly clever or intelligent, but Harry supposed their loyalty made up for it. “Those two are certainly not the sharpest, but they serve intimidation purposes, if nothing else. As long as I consider you my ally, they will remain loyal to you as well. They are like pets, really,” he stated, sounding rather condescending.

“That is Blaise Zabini,” he then said, gesturing towards the dark boy. “His mother has had seven husbands, all rumored to have died mysterious deaths. They have quite a bit of money, most inherited from the aforementioned husbands, but are not particularly influential as they have mostly kept out of society. Not much is known about them, other than that they were neutral in the last war. Blaise himself is rather sharp; very quiet, but very observant. I am not sure of his loyalties, either to my family or…in the war.”

Harry absorbed Draco’s observations, filing away the commentary. Draco’s statement on Zabini’s side in the war seemed somehow odd to Harry; he had assumed, for reasons that he could not now properly identify, that the people around him had all fought against the ‘Dark Lord’. Now, as he looked around him at the Slytherins, at Draco, he suddenly wondered at the validity of that belief. Of course, none of them had outright stated they were Dark wizards; Draco had in fact expressed a certain amount of skepticism towards the idea, which Harry was relatively certain was genuine. That didn’t mean they didn’t have certain sides in the previous war; ‘Dark Lord’ was just a title after all. Harry made a careful note to read about the war and this Dark Lord he’d supposedly defeated.

They arrived to their first class, Charms, and took their seats in the left side of the classroom opposite the group of Ravenclaw first years they would be sharing with. Their teacher, Professor Flitwick, entered the classroom a few moments later; he was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. Once everyone was seated and no one else seemed to be coming he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight. Harry felt himself flush slightly as the Ravenclaws all suddenly turned to look at him .

“I will be demonstrating the levitation charm today, although you will not be casting it yet. That will be in a few classes, once we have the motion and the words down properly. Everyone take out your wands and follow my lead!”

Harry took out his holly wand, doing his best to ignore the odd feeling the wand gave him. He hoped that with enough use his magic would either accept it or he’d grow used to the feeling. It was really quite distracting.

Flitwick made a strange motion with his wand, as if he were a composer.

“Now, the spell for this is ‘ _Wingardium Leviosa’_.”

Harry nearly choked on air. _Wing-what? That wasn’t Latin! What even was that?!_ He stared at the Professor, who repeated the words a few more times, just so Harry could be sure he hadn’t just misheard. Then he proceeded to point his wand at a feather on his desk, say the words – _which were NOT LATIN_ – and, despite Harry’s absolute disbelief that it could possibly work, it lifted off the desk and proceeded to dance around the room.

Some of the students around Harry watched the feather with nothing short of amazement; Harry noted these were probably the Muggleborns, as obviously those students who had grown up with Wizards would find the display inconsequential. None of the Slytherins seemed particularly impressed, although some looked eager to try it out for themselves.

Harry, however, could barely contain his frustration. That was definitely not Latin, and he would eat his own tongue if it was any other language than _pure rubbish_. He couldn’t explain why, but it felt like the words were taunting his beloved Latin, somehow ridiculing its beauty with these stupid words which seemed to think they could pass as the marvelous Old Tongue.

Harry wouldn’t stand for it, and he pushed his magic at the feather, which Flitwick was still waving about, and hissed under his breath, “ _Volito_.”

Immediately, the feather began to flutter about in a much more active manner than before, flying all around the room, slapping some of the students lightly in the face and causing some of them to sneeze. Flitwick seemed stunned for a moment before he smiled and clapped his hand. “Why, how marvelous that one of you can already do it! Who has performed the spell so well?”

No one raised their hands, and Flitwick looked around, still smiling.

“Now, now, no need to be shy! 10 points to whoever is doing this!”

Still no one raised their hands, and Flitwick frowned slightly, turning to look towards the feather which darted quickly this way and that as various students attempted to catch it.

“No one? Really? Hmm…Peeves, is it you? Come out Peeves!”

No one answered, and Flitwick turned back to the students. Harry brought the feather out in front of Flitwick’s face and then poked him in the nose. Flitwick gave a small splutter, bringing his hands up to his face and smacking the feather away.  The movement caused him to lose his balance and topple out of sight once again. The other students burst out laughing, and Harry took advantage of the distraction and returned the feather to Flitwick’s desk.

The Professor managed to after a moment clamber back onto his books, calling on the students to settle down.

“Well, that was quite something!” Harry thought Flitwick might perhaps be angry, but the short wizard looked almost thrilled instead. “Truly quite impressive magic! Marvelous control, for sure. Now, now, who of you managed to do this? I know it wasn’t Peeves, his magic doesn’t feel like this.”

Harry’s eyes widened before he berated himself mentally. Of course he wasn’t the only magic sensitive around! Lucius had clearly been able to sense Ollivander’s oddity, it wouldn’t be so strange to suppose one of his teachers here in Hogwarts, allegedly one of the best magical schools in Europe, would have some sense of what other’s magic felt like.

Harry focused on Flitwick’s magic. It wasn’t anywhere near as powerful as Lucius’, or even McGonagall’s, but there was a definite sense of awareness about it that immediately called Harry’s attention.

Flitwick made a few more attempts to coax out the perpetrator, but after even with a 50 House Point bribe no one volunteered, he gave up. Harry supposed none of the Ravenclaws would even dare to try without first having grasped the logic behind the spell, and none of the Slytherins were willing to make fools of themselves when Flitwick indubitably demanded proof of their claim. Harry himself wasn’t sure if he would even be able to cast the spell through the wand at all, with the designated words; he honestly didn’t really want to, either, and decided to later practice casting a spell so that it at least _appeared_ to have been cast through his wand. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the words yet. He straight up _refused_ to speak that nonsense.

Eventually, Flitwick dismissed the incident as “one of the many odd things you will see here at Hogwarts, class, I myself am constantly surprised!”, and Harry gave out a sigh of relief. Clearly, while Flitwick too could detect magic, he was incapable of following it back to the source. Perhaps he could only sense it when it was very close? Physically touching? Harry would have to be wary around him.

Half of the remaining class was spent learning the motions for the spell, with the remaining half having Flitwick explaining its various uses and limitations. Harry had to contain a flinch every time the words were mentioned, and by the end of the class he was ready to mutilate whoever it was that had made up that _stupid mixture of idiotic syllables_.

The class exited chattering excitedly about the Feather Incident, as they had taken to calling it, wondering on whether it had been a ghost or the mysterious ‘Peeves’. They had been watching the feather carefully for the duration, but it hadn’t twitched again. Some students thought it had been a ploy by Flitwick to get them excited about the spell.

Draco quickly noticed his foul mood as Harry remained relatively sullen on their walk to lunch. The other Slytherins walked on ahead as they hung back.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Harry snapped back. Draco scowled.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Potter. I am expressing my _concern_. You should be honoured.”

Harry snorted, before frowning once again. “It’s nothing. It’s just so _stupid_.”

“ _What_ is, Potter?” Draco asked, crossing his arms and shooting him an exasperated look.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ What in the nine layers of Hell does that even mean?! It’s not a word! It’s just...just _gibberish_!”

Draco looked taken aback by Harry’s sudden outburst. A few of the slower Ravenclaw students shot them curious looks; Draco glared at them and they hurried off. Draco turned back to Harry, giving him a somewhat confused look.

“It’s just a spell. I don’t think they are supposed to mean anything, not independently of the ritual to cast the spell itself.”

Harry scowled, but before he could snap again at the blonde a horrifying thought entered his head. What if ‘proper spells’ weren’t in Latin? He had no guarantee on it, and in fact had merely assumed that just because _his_ magic worked with his beloved language, so did all others. No one had ever stated that Latin was the basis for their spells, not really. It had all just seemed so obvious.

“Potter? Harry? Are you alright?”

“…What ritual?”

Draco blinked. “The wand-waving and words? They are a ritual to cast the spell; a very short one, sure, but that’s only because the actual real ritual was designed to have the short-cut. Otherwise casting magic would be very time-consuming and not practical at all.”

“Huh. That makes sense.” _Didn’t mean the words were any less insulting, though._

“Of course it does,” the blonde stated haughtily. “We have quite a few books on the subject in my family’s library; I’ve only read enough to get a basic grasp on the general principles, but I can lend you some if you want. You should also check out the school’s library. I’m sure they have some books here as well, although obviously not as useful as the ones I have.”

Harry couldn’t help the rush of gleeful anticipation at the looming prospect of being able to browse the fabled Hogwarts library, and he shot the blonde a fond, thankful look. Draco’s pureblood mask cracked at that and he responded with a wide, childish grin.

“That would be fantastic, Draco. And you’re right, I should.” Harry said, cheerfully. The promise of more knowledge set Harry at ease once again; perhaps there was some logic to the whole debacle after all.

 

* * *

 

Lunch was a relaxed affair. Zabini sat next to Harry again, and by now he was sure the seating arrangements were pre-arranged. They didn’t speak, although Zabini seemed to be aware of him all through the meal. His magic at times seemed eager to reach out, but would always pull back when it got too near Harry’s own. Harry didn’t really know what to make of it, but even though it put him slightly on edge he couldn’t feel any hostility from Zabini, and so was content to allow the current state of affairs. Draco’s comments on the boy flitted through the back of his mind. Beside him, Draco prattled on about Potions. Harry listened to him, content to allow the blonde to fill the silence. By now he was beginning to realize that Draco _really_ liked talking, a feature of the boy that Harry was more that fine with; as long as he hummed in agreement or nodded every once in a while, Draco could talk and talk and talk. Harry didn’t even really have to pay attention, although what the blonde said usually was interesting enough to warrant it. It was mostly when he began to talk about gossip that Harry tended to tune him out. Parkinson was more than happy to contribute at that point, and so Harry didn’t feel guilty at turning his attention elsewhere. He still picked up on some of it, though. Who knew when knowledge on the other students would come in handy.

They walked back down to the dungeons for Potions; Harry still hadn’t gotten a good grasp of the place, but Zabini seemed to know exactly where he was going, so Harry and Draco followed him all the way down. He wasn’t too worried about ever getting _too_ lost; after all, he could always use his magic to point out the correct direction, but he’d rather utilize that technique only as a last resort. By following the dark-haired boy, they didn’t get lost once. Harry was honestly quite impressed.

They entered the classroom quickly and quietly, Harry sitting between Draco and Zabini at one of the tables nearest the front. They shared this class with the Gryffindors, and Harry noted with some amusement that there was a very clear division down the center of the class between the two Houses. He was less amused by how most of the Gryffindors seemed to be looking at him and muttering in hushed whispers. He hunched slightly into himself, not liking the attention at all.

He noticed belatedly how Snape stood silently in the front of the classroom, eerily reminiscent of a dark gargoyle as he observed all the students. Harry allowed himself a few moments to once again admire the man’s magic, which snapped about with all the deadly grace of a furious python.

Like Flitwick, Snape began the class by taking roll call. He hesitated minutely at Harry’s name, pronouncing his last name like he found it personally distasteful, but then continued going. Harry didn’t know what to think of this; it was clear the man disliked him but, until he made any overt moves Harry couldn’t bring himself to worry overly about it. Perhaps it was simply his imagination. Draco’s magic vibrated with excitement next to him, even as his expression remained coldly aloof, and Harry had to admit that he was also excited for his very first Potions class. Eventually, Snape came up to the front of the class to stand imposingly in front of the first-years.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but with the class a silent as it was they caught every word. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses.... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Even as he finished the speech, Harry couldn’t help but nod along. He didn’t approve of the dependence wizards had apparently developed on wands, even if he understood objectively why it had; he viewed it as laziness to the core, and could fully appreciate Snape’s point of view on the matter. His own attempts at potion’s brewing while at the Leaky Cauldron had met with relative success, but he was eager to see what techniques Snape – a well-renowned Potions Master, after all – could impart to him.

"Potter!" said Snape suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

In his peripheral vision, Harry could see a hand shoot up in the air, but he paid it no mind. He wasn’t exactly prepared for the sudden question, but he quickly gathered his bearings.

“Well, sir, asphodel usually would react with wormwood as a mild depressant, which has its uses in various medicines. But, if you _powder_ the _root_ …” he paused, uncertain. He was sure he’d read about this. “Pure Wormwood tends to react too powerfully with powdered materials, but an infusion should stabilize it…forming a potion which would inhibit reactions and cause drowsiness much more strongly; essentially almost fully depressing a person’s central nervous system. So…probably a very potent sleeping draught of some sort?” he said, looking up at Snape as he concluded.

Snape looked like he’d been slapped, a look which Harry was starting to find depressingly familiar on most adults. After a moment, Snape nodded, although it looked like it hurt him to do so.

“Correct, Potter.” The words seemed to pain him, drawn out reluctantly in a tone that gave the impression that Snape couldn’t believe he was saying them at all. “Powdered root of asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Drought of Living Death.”

He then came to stand closer to Harry, peering into his eyes with his own black ones with a calculating glare. Harry looked straight back. “I am curious as to where you came to know of the more…delicate qualities of asphodel and wormwood.” He didn’t seem angry, but his expression was now carefully guarded, less clear in expressing the strong dislike from before. His magic had gone strangely still during Harry’s explanation, but had now resumed its dance, if in a slightly more subdued, precise manner, and Harry got the distinct feeling that  the man was controlling some sort of instinctive reaction.

He cocked his head lightly. “I read it in _Potions Theory; Fauna and Flora_. It discusses various uses and qualities of the most common plants used in potions, among other things, as well as their various types and methods of application.”

Snape’s lip curled slightly, in a smile or a grimace Harry was not sure. “I have read the book myself, Mr. Potter. I know what it says,” he said softly. Harry nodded, and something in Snape’s magic seemed to soften from its sharp dance. “It contains much useful information; you would do well to learn all you can from it.”

“I am trying, Sir,” Harry said. Snape nodded once more before suddenly scowling fiercely, and then turned back to the rest of the class, who were watching the exchange in stunned silence.

“Longbottom! Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Harry turned to see who it was that Snape had singled out; the boy was chubby and not particularly bright-looking, and seemed like he was about to cry.

“I…I don’t know sir,” he answered after a few moments of soundless blubbering. Draco sent the boy a disgusted glare, a sentiment which Zabini seemed to share if the sharp twist in his lips was any indication.

Snape scoffed rather contemptuously.

“Clearly. Anyone else?”

The same hand from before shot up once again, and Harry noted it belonged to a bushy-haired girl who was sitting alone. Snape, however, ignored her. After a moment, Draco raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“In the stomach of a goat, sir.”

Snape nodded. “Quite. 5 points for Slytherin.”

Harry frowned. Hadn’t he deserved some points too? And why didn’t Snape call on the girl?

Snape turned and gestured to the board, where he’d written down instructions.

“This is a simple potion to cure boils. Get into pairs and try not to blow yourselves up. We have an uneven number of students, however, so one of you will have to be alone.”

 Harry immediately volunteered; he wanted to try out a few techniques he’d read about, and a partner would only get in the way. Besides, Harry was used to working alone. Snape shot him a suspicious glare but allowed it. Draco looked at him curiously, but at Harry’s flippant wave shrugged arrogantly, as if he were the one dismissing Harry, and promptly partnered with Zabini.

Harry immediately began planning how best to go about preparing the potions ingredients for a more efficient potion. Textbook recipes were all well and good, but Borage had been adamant in his belief that most potions were taught in a rather time-consuming and ultimately wasteful fashion, sacrificing efficiency for simplicity, but Harry was nothing if not efficient. He was still slightly cautious at messing about with potions, even after having already experimented some, but felt confident enough in his ability to at least attempt a few minor adjustments.

He did, however, want to make sure that it wouldn’t all get him into trouble with Snape.

“Professor?” he asked quietly. Snape shot him an irritated look before stalking over.

“What is it, Potter? Surely you haven’t yet managed to ruin your potion?”

Harry bit back his annoyance. He had no idea why Snape disliked him so, but he would _not stand_ for being considered _incompetent_.

“No, sir. I was wondering if it would be ok for me to attempt a few adjustments to the instructions on the board. For a better potion.”

Snape looked surprised for a moment before sneering at him.

“And how, Potter, do you think you could improve upon this potion?” His voice was bitingly sarcastic, but his magic had gone tellingly still.

“Well, crushing the newt’s eyes instead of dicing them would release the juice more effectively, so I’d only have to simmer the cauldron for 2 minutes instead of 7,” Harry said carefully; he’d tried that technique before, and it had worked quite well. Snape’s expression had once again gone flat, but his magic was still oddly _expectant_ , so Harry continued. “And if I added two of the beetles _after_ I added the borage stems – obviously while continually stirring counterclockwise – they would react better with the Afanc hair, wouldn’t they?” He wasn’t as sure about this suggestion, but that was why he was asking Snape before attempting it himself. Usually he’d just go ahead and see what happened, but given that this all now counted towards a _grade_ – and how that notion still unsettled something inside him – he opted for a safer option.

Snape stayed quiet for a few moments, simply looking at Harry. Harry noted that a few of the other students were looking at them curiously; Draco appeared slightly concerned, and even a few of the Gryffindors were shooting him pitying looks, no doubt thinking he was in trouble.

“Try adding three of the beetles after the borage, but lowering the heat slightly. The potion should turn a bright red momentarily, before turning royal purple instead of lilac. It should be ready much sooner,” he said finally. He was scowling again, but his tone lacked the hard edge from before and his eyes were measuring him carefully. Harry nodded, taking note of Snape’s advice.

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

Snape nodded before scowling again, irritation flashing across his features, and then turning to the rest of the class. Harry grinned slightly; that had gone well!

By the time Harry began preparing his potion, everyone else had already started; even so, Harry still finished long before any of the others. He’d followed Snape’s advice, and his potion had indeed flashed bright red before settling into royal purple. Snape came up to him and peered into his cauldron.

“…adequate, Potter,” he said after a few seconds, and Harry thought that, this time perhaps, Snape didn’t sound quite as upset about admitting Harry’s success. He didn’t sound _happy_ either, but Harry wasn’t hoping for miracles. “Bottle it up and place it on my desk, labeled with your name. Try to see if some of your classmates could use your help; I believe Mr. Goyle and Mr. Crabbe would benefit particularly.”

Harry nodded, taking the reluctant praise for what it was as Snape stalked off once again. He bottled up his potion and, after labeling it with his name, placed it on Snape’s desk. He then went over to where Goyle and Crabbe were standing next to a cauldron that shone a bright yellow. Harry grimaced.

“Oh, hell. Have you added the borage stems yet? How long has it been since you added the beetles?”

Goyle looked at him stupidly before shaking his head. Crabbe looked even more lost. Harry sighed; they certainly were like pets.

“Never mind that, I’ll take care of it. Move over.”

Harry spent the rest of the class trying to fix Crabbe and Goyle’s potion. He didn’t really mind that the pair eventually gave up trying to help and simply stood next to him without saying anything or doing any work; they were honestly more of a liability that anything. It also allowed him to mess about with a few of the ingredients while he was at it; the potion was already ruined, and Harry had his own already finished. He would certainly _try_ to help, but if he didn’t do everything correctly the worst that would happen was that the potion would stay ruined. Snape circled the group a few times but said nothing, quietly observing Harry work before moving on to snap at the Gryffindors.

He didn’t manage to save it completely, but at least by the end of the class it was an exceedingly light pinkish color, as opposed to the fluorescent yellow it had been when he’d first seen it. It certainly wouldn’t cure any boils, but Harry was relatively certain it would help soothe a sunburn.

He bottled the potion and took it to Snape, placing it with the other potions on his desk. Snape raised an eyebrow at him.

“What is this, Potter?”

“Sorry, sir, but it was unsalvageable by the time I got there,” Harry said. He noted with some satisfaction that it was by far not the worst-looking potion. Davis and Bulstrode had somehow managed to end up with a puke-green potion, and Weasley and Finnigan’s was a dull, sickly-looking orange. The best-looking one was Draco and Zabini’s. It looked as Harry would have expected his to, except his potion was royal purple and Harry had no real idea if he’d done it right given the shifted goal. He certainly hoped he had. If nothing else, he’d quite enjoyed the entire process, including his attempts at adjusting the instructions. Although, to be honest, he’d had more fun with Crabbe’s and Goyle’s potion; the pair had no real idea what they’d put in the cauldron and so Harry had had to assume from what ingredients were missing what section of the instructions the pair had already attempted. Granger and Longbottom had a decent potion, but Harry suspected it was entirely thanks to Granger that it didn’t look like Davis and Bulstrode’s; Longbottom clearly was much too terrified of Snape to be of any use in the class. Every time the Professor had gotten near the pair the boy had looked as if he was about to faint. Harry would have found it funny if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic.

The other students filed out of the class, but Harry hung back, wanting to ask Snape if he could recommend any other Potions books and if he could explain his suggestion with the beetles. Harry strongly disliked not understanding theories. Draco came up to him.

“Let’s go to the Common Room.”

“I’ll go back in a moment. I want to ask Professor Snape something.”

Draco nodded. “Alright. I’ll meet you there. Don’t get lost on the way back, I don’t want to have to look for you,” he claimed haughtily.

Harry smiled mockingly at him. “How kind of you to worry over me, Draco!”

Draco glared at him, but he was grinning as well so Harry merely waved him off as he left the classroom with the rest of the Slytherins. Some of the Gryffindors shot him somewhat curious looks as they left, and Harry noted that the red-head boy looked at him with some hostility. The bushy-haired girl, Granger, gave him a calculating look before also exiting, finally leaving Harry and Snape alone in the class. Snape was peering at the light pinkish potion with a curious look on his face, shooting considering looks at Harry’s own purple one.

Harry opened his mouth to ask Snape about the books, but Snape raised a hand and Harry closed his mouth.

“How long have you been studying Potions, Potter?”

“A few weeks? Probably around a month.”

Snape’s expression turned incredulous, before he scowled. “There’s no way you could have done this with merely a month’s worth of studying, Potter. Tell me the truth. Have you had tutors?”

Harry looked at him with confusion, gripping his bag nervously. “No sir. I’m not lying. I’ve read over half the Potions text for this class, as well as _Extended Theory of Potion-Making_ and quite a bit of the _Fauna and Flora_ book I told you about. That’s all.”

Snape’s scowl seemed to fall off his face in a manner which would have been rather comical had Harry not felt quite so confused over why Snape seemed determined not to believe him.

“That’s all.” Snape’s voice was flat and slightly sarcastic.

“Yes, Sir. That’s all.”

Snape gave a deep sigh.

“Very well, Potter. Say I believe you. Where have you been learning to brew, then? Some of those chopping and stirring motions can only be learned through experience.”

“I’ve been trying some of the potions on Borage’s book. I didn’t think I’ve yet got quite the muscle memory needed for proper motions yet, thought.”

Snape nodded. “No, not yet. But I feel you may eventually.” He picked up Harry’s potion and peered into the glass carefully once again. “Which Potions have you made already?”

“I’ve mostly stuck to three, and made those over a few times until I was sure I got them right. A light Sleeping Draught, a Nutrient Broth and Sylphs’ Muscle Relaxant.” He grimaced. “That last one is total pain to make, very ironically appropriate.”

Snape’s lips quirked slightly in what Harry thought might be amusement. “It certainly is.” Then he glared again at Harry. Harry was honestly starting to find it sort of funny how Snape was so determined to keep disliking him when he so clearly approved of Harry’s interest in potions. It reminded him slightly of Sandy, and how she’d always approved of his academic pursuits above everything else. He was intensely curious, however, about just _why_ Snape was so stubborn about disliking him. He was certain he’d never met the man before coming to Hogwarts.

Snape cleared his throat. “Well, Potter, you’d best get going. You may not have any homework yet, but I have classes to prepare.”

Harry nodded, then walked over towards the door of the classroom. As he was about to leave, Snape spoke.

“Oh, and Potter? 20 Points to Slytherin for being quite an acceptable student.”

Harry couldn’t stop smiling all the way back to the Common Room.


	9. Morbus

Harry arrived quickly at the statue of the large serpent which was the entrance to the Common Room, still smiling slightly; Snape’s parting words had put him in a decidedly good mood. The corridor was empty around him.

“ _Semper Purum_ ,” he said.

Nothing happened for a moment, but then suddenly the snake spoke.

_§Welcome §_

Then the statue moved sideways, revealing the entrance to the Common Room. Harry peered at the snake curiously for a moment before entering the room. So the statues could talk; he wondered how many other students were aware of this, and if this would perhaps aid in any sort of spying. To be fair he wasn’t sure the statue could really talk at all. Perhaps they only had pre-programmed messages installed, such as ‘Welcome’. He’d have to check later.

Draco looked up at him as he entered from where he was sitting on one of the lavish armchairs by the fire, flanked by Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle. There were a few older Slytherins also sitting about, a few of them working on homework or reading, while others conversed. Harry noted with interest that while there was no clear division, there were almost certainly a few defined groups which the rest of the students seemed to be hyper-aware of. Draco’s group was one of those; regardless of the fact that they were all first-years, they were heirs to powerful families and so would almost automatically be high on the Slytherin hierarchy. If there was one thing which was clear to Harry, it was the Slytherins valued power in whatever form they found it.

Harry slipped in, largely unnoticed, and walked over to Draco’s group, sitting on the empty couch to the right of the blonde. He could see a few faces glancing his way, judging how involved he already was with one of the central groups. Harry paid them no heed; while he accepted the importance of maintaining a relatively high position, he had no intention of getting dragged into the more complicated side of school politics. There was a reason he very rarely socialized.

“What did you want to ask Snape?”

Harry frowned before sighing.

“I forgot about that. I’ll have to ask him some other time. When is our next Potions class?”

“Friday we have double Potions.”

“Good, that will be a nice way to end the week,” Harry said, grinning. Draco chuckled.

“See, I knew you’d like Potions. It’s great, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Harry replied. Today had been a lot of fun; he’d been quite nervous about his first day, but apparently his fears had been for naught.

They talked for a while, Harry telling Draco about his potions experiments while Pansy walked off to talk to one of the other first-year Slytherin girls, Daphne Greengrass. After a while, Zabini came down from where their dorms were located, coming to sit at the other side of the couch Harry was on and settling in quietly to read a book. 

Dinner passed quickly; Harry couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting over both Snape and Dumbledore’s magic at the head table. Dumbledore’s was especially arresting in its unadorned magnificence; there was quite simply a whole _lot_ of magic surrounding the man, lively and pulsing with strength, and Harry couldn’t help a pang of awe at the wizard’s obvious power. Meanwhile, Snape’s magic was less obviously _powerful_ , but no less imposing for it.

Having the two wizards together, Harry took a moment to catalogue their differences. It would be interesting know what he could figure out from a wizard’s magic apart from their emotions. He’d done quite a bit of people-watching during his stay at Diagon Alley, but most wizards’ and witches’ magic was too feeble to properly appreciate their subtleties and nuances. He suspected that had to do with power level, although the idea had occurred to him that hiding one’s magic might be possible. He needed to find out how common it was for wizards to be magic-sensitive, as that would give him an indication onto how important it could be for him to learn to hide his own magic, however much of it there was.

Snape’s magic was darker than Dumbledore’s; it was also somehow more _active_ , although presently there was an anxious tenseness to it that Harry couldn’t help but attribute to being in front of the entire school. Snape struck Harry as a very private man. While Snape’s magic had a whip-like quality, Dumbledore’s looked more like a mantle, all-encompassing and brilliant, giving the man the illusion of a halo of light surrounding him. Something about the image made Harry uneasy, but he brushed off the feeling. Surely he was only wary of such a powerful man; after all, power was always a tricky subject.

Around him, the other Slytherins were already establishing themselves firmly within their own hierarchy; as first-years, they were the only new players, and so these first days were key, when the older students would judge them most carefully. Draco would certainly be situated at the top, as his name already practically guaranteed even if the blonde himself had not also been apt. To Harry, it was almost painfully clear which students were from powerful pureblood families; they all carried with them a certain air of aloofness and arrogance which bespoke their origins, and they were often surrounded by other students which carried themselves in a similar manner.

Harry didn’t know what to think of this pseudo-political play; on one hand he found it quite interesting, and felt somewhat eager to participate. While he did not _enjoy_ socializing, he was good at getting people to do what he wanted, and he looked forward to exercising and practicing this ability. Undoubtedly it would serve him in his life.

Another part of him was wary at the idea of being surrounded by, at most, allies and, at worst, enemies which were only waiting for him to turn his back to stab it. So far, he had Draco’s favor, which meant he was automatically within the higher ranks of the Slytherin hierarchy; however, he could also feel that if he didn’t prove himself independent of the Malfoy heir’s approval, the other students would tear him apart. If was a feeling which permeated the Common Room constantly, and was more diluted here in the Great Hall but which still didn’t allow Harry to relax all that much.

The meal ended and they returned to their dorms, where everyone began to get ready for bed. Harry, not feeling particularly tired, decided to read. Draco had immediately locked himself in the bathroom, much to Harry’s amusement. He began to sift through his trunk, looking through its library somewhat distractedly. He eventually settled on the book on magical theory which focused on the different kinds of magic, and settled into his bed to read.

“ _Illuminare_ ”, he murmured absently, flicking his hand above his head. A sudden blob of light materialized above him, brightening up Harry’s bed.

A few minutes later Draco emerged from the bathroom and lay down on his bed. Harry set down his book and drew his magic away from the light, snuffing it out, as he entered the bathroom. Ending a spell was always much easier than casting one; once it was active, all Harry had to do to stop the spell was to stop feeding it his magic, which was in essence what kept it going. He’d learned early on that if he didn’t maintain a steady feed the spell would end automatically; it had taken him a while to grasp the exact amount of magic each spell needed to work continuously, but by now it was much more instinctive. Initially he’d had to focus very strongly on maintaining the connection, but by now he could maintain 3 simple spells at once without too many problems. It was, however, much easier with spells that demanded a similar power level, which meant he could simply feed them all the same; he still had a few problems with over or under charging spells because he was linked to two which had very different demands.

His main problem was with figuring out just how much the spell needed; he was learning how to feel the spell’s pull and give it only that much, but it wasn’t _easy_. His magic was not calm or placid but instead fluid and slippery, and often fought his hold, as if wanting to flood the channel he’d opened for the spell. He had devised routine to practice his control over his magic, which consisted on casting and maintaining various small spells for as long as he could. Harry was actually starting to realize that there were several kinds of spells which he was able to control for much longer periods of times than others. _Illuminare,_ for example, he could cast and maintain for days if needed. _Effugiat_ , however, lasted at most a couple hours, despite not having a much larger demand of power. In fact, he could maintain _Tegmentum_ for up to fourteen hours, and _that_ spell had a very big demand.

To Harry it seemed to have to do somewhat with the spell’s ‘passiveness’; he suspected offensive spells were in general much harder to maintain than defensive spells, for example, or spells which were expected to react to situations.

“ _Monere accessus,_ ” he said, casting it towards the bathroom door. He didn’t want to be startled from what he was about to do in case Draco decided he’d forgotten something.

He approached the shower, setting the water to ‘cold’. He tested it to make sure it was indeed at a very low temperature, before casting ‘ _Æstus’_. The water immediately heated, and once he made certain it was at an appropriate temperature he stepped into the shower. This particular method to exercise control was one of his favorites, but it was also one of the hardest. If Harry wasn’t relatively sure he would not be disturbed, he would not have attempted it for fear of ending up either burned or frozen. Manipulating running water was very taxing on his concentration and magical reserves, but it was also a very efficient way of calming himself. For the last few days he’d only used his magic in very minor ways, and it tended to go rather crazy if it wasn’t exercised sufficiently.

He exited the bathroom a while later, toweling his hair mildly. He shot a glance towards Draco’s bed; the blonde’s curtains were drawn, obscuring him completely. He retreated to his bed, drawing his own curtains and calling out his light, settling in to read until he fell asleep from exhaustion.

 

* * *

 

Harry’s first impression of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was that it smelled rather strongly of garlic.

Then Harry’s eyes landed on the Professor; immediately, he was sure something was very, very wrong with the man.

Quirrell’s magic was split into two distinct factions. Harry had never seen anything like it; everyone’s magic was relatively monotone, deviating from shades of dark to light grey from person to person, but no one had _two_ shades.

To Harry’s senses it felt like the man might as well have been two people, the two sides were so blatantly different. Harry supposed a similar effect might appear if someone was, say, pregnant, but obviously that was impossible for Quirrell.

Harry paused in his musing. Wasn’t it? The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, it had seemed quite obvious…but he didn’t know that with magic it wasn’t possible for a man to become pregnant. He shook the mildly disturbing thought from his mind and focused back on his Professor’s odd magical aura.

One half of his magic was pressed to his skin, vibrating feebly and looking rather like it was in pain; it had a sickly sheen which Harry had never before seen, and dearly hoped never to see again. It looked like it was _dying_. The other half was an odd combination of looming darkness and cloudy vagueness, swirling strongly around Quirrell’s head but dissipating if it meandered too far from the man. This half seemed like it was keeping the other cowed and, as Harry observed for a few moments, seemed to somehow be _feeding_ on the lighter magic. It made a vaguely nauseous sensation rise up his throat.

No one around him seemed to think anything was wrong with the man, but Harry supposed that if they couldn’t see the distressing magical cannibalism going on in front of them, then nothing would seem too out of the ordinary with their Professor. He himself hadn’t even really noticed anything until he had the man right in front of him; he blamed his inattentiveness on Snape’s marvelous magic, which always drew his attention away. He honestly had no idea what any of the other teacher’s magic looked like, even, but vowed to pay attention from now on.

Something was very, very wrong with Quirrell.

“Hello, c-c-class. Welcome to your first c-c-class in D-D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” Quirrell began, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but there. His eyes swept nervously around the class, widening minutely as they landed on Harry.

A strand of the dark magic surrounding Quirrell suddenly speared through the room and before Harry could react he felt a piercing pain on his forehead. He stifled a pained gasp, bringing his forehead down to his hands before anyone could see his expression, scrunching his eyes in agony.

A moment later the pain was gone, as suddenly as it had struck, but Harry took a few seconds longer to raise his head from his hands, wary of the pain returning. No one seemed to have noticed his plight, although he could feel Zabini shooting him an unreadable look. Quirrell was talking about his turban, and how it had been given to him by an African Prince; Harry paid him no attention, trying to focus on the man’s strange magic.

That had almost definitely been an attack, Harry was sure of it. It had certainly _felt_ like an attack; he could still feel phantom pangs of pain and a small headache building. But why would Quirrell attack him? He hadn’t seemed upset to see Harry, and he certainly didn’t look like the kind of wizard who would have magic as dark as the oppressive half looked. Both Snape and Lucius had magic that was at least a few shades darker than everyone around them, but both men were powerful and guarded; their darkness felt natural, earned. It flowed with them, graceful, and despite the disconcerting tone Harry would not have wanted it otherwise. It would have looked wrong.

Wrong like the darkness looked right now on Quirrell. There was just something about the way they moved together – something about the way the magic reacted to Quirrell’s actions and expressions – that was incongruous and clumsy, that felt like an awkward attachment.

The lighter magic was instead much more fluid, if feeble and vague; Harry had no trouble believing _that_ magic was Quirrell’s. In fact, Harry was starting to suspect that the darker magic was not in fact part of his Professor at all. He also didn’t believe it could be a pregnancy, even if it _was_ possible – Harry would never discard options just because they were personally distasteful, after all – because the dark magic was _anything_ but childlike.

Perhaps it was some sort of magical parasite? A disease? Did the Professor even know? If it could attack students like it had just attacked Harry, then Harry thought it was dangerous enough to warrant at least a warning. To be fair, it was now back to sitting placidly and menacingly on Quirrell’s head, making no move to attack any of the other students.

Eventually, Harry decided to keep an eye out on the dark magic for a while before doing anything else; it strongly unnerved him, but as far as he knew it was not all that uncommon in the wizarding world to have a kind of…magical tumor? A dangerous, menacing magical tumor?

Ok, so that wasn’t the proper image to encourage himself to believe it perhaps wasn’t all that bad, even if it _had_ attacked him. The headache was almost entirely gone by now, and didn’t seem to have left any lasting side-effects, although Harry would hold his judgment until the end of the day; some side-effects had a tendency to linger. He decided he’d wait and see what happened; perhaps he’d ask Draco subtly about it. For all he knew it was a very sensitive not-secret which he had just happened to miss.

The rest of the class was, predictably, rather boring and useless. Quirrell’s stutter was clearly driving Draco insane, to the point where the blonde had started muttering under his breath about getting his father to do something about it, much to Harry’s amusement. About halfway through Harry gave up on learning anything from his strange teacher and simply took out the textbook and began to read, ignoring everything Quirrell said. Quirrell didn’t seem to notice, thankfully, and the class ended without any further incident.

During lunch the Slytherins all complained about what an utter failure Quirrell was as a teacher; he was clearly terrified of his own shadow, and could barely utter a sentence without mangling most of the words with his terrible stutter. Harry didn’t really care all that much; he’d always learned from books anyways, so not having a teacher was to him no great loss. He was more worried over what the dark magic was, and whether the Professor was even aware that it was there. He had seemed quite oblivious to it, but perhaps he simply wasn’t expecting any of his students to be able to sense it either, which Harry accepted was a fair assumption. He turned to Draco, speaking softly.

“Say, Draco, is there anything about Quirrell that could be considered…odd? More than usual?”

Draco frowned. “I’m assuming you are referring to something other than what we’ve been discussing so far?”

Harry nodded, and Draco looked pensive for a moment.

“I don’t think so,” he said finally, slowly, “but I don’t really know much about him, really. He never seemed very interesting. Why are you asking?”

“Just curious. He seemed an odd character, didn’t he?” Harry said, grinning. Draco’s comment had cemented his theory that no one suspected Quirrell’s…problem, but that only worried Harry more. He was certain it was not something that could be normal. An idea suddenly struck him.

“Draco, do you where the library is?”

 

* * *

 

“So, what are you looking for?” Draco finally asked.

Harry had been perusing various books for the past while, but so far none of them looked very helpful. He didn’t have much time before lunch ended, but he figured he might as well get a head start in looking up what might be the problem with the Professor, and where better to look than the library?

He was hesitant to express to Draco his worries; he wanted more information before he either dragged the blonde or his Professor into a problem, so for now he decided to keep the whole thing a secret.

“Nothing really. I’m just taking a look around, see what books they have.”

Draco gave him an odd look, but nodded, accepting the excuse. “Well, we only have a few more minutes before we have to leave, or we won’t make it to Transfiguration. You can look after that.”

Harry sighed but nodded, knowing he wasn’t getting much further on such a limited time. They walked out, and Harry wondered if the blonde would follow him in the afternoon as well. He liked Draco, he really did, but he wanted a bit of privacy for this research. He felt he was already invading Quirrell’s privacy by looking at all, and didn’t really trust the blonde wouldn’t notice his particular focus on diseases and maladies if he kept watch over Harry for much longer.

They arrived to McGonagall’s class with a few minutes to spare, and settled in one of the desks near the front of the class to wait for the other students to arrive. There was a small tabby cat sitting on McGonagall’s desk, and Harry was immediately suspicious. The cat had a magical aura surrounding it; this in and of itself was not altogether surprising, as Harry had long supposed there were magical creatures around. The problem was the sheer magnitude of the cat’s aura. It was much larger than it had any right to be for such a cat, and, more importantly, _felt_ wrong. There was a certain familiarity to the aura as well, although Harry couldn’t really place it.

Harry’s suspicions were confirmed when the tabby suddenly transformed into McGonagall, much to the student’s surprise and awe. Harry couldn’t help the way his eyes widened with sheer glee. What marvelous magic! What was that? Could he learn to do that too? And she hadn’t used her wand to do it, either! Or an incantation! How absolutely, wonderfully glorious. He _would_ learn to do that.

After the impressive demonstration, the class truly began. McGonagall was certainly strict, but she was also clearly a very competent witch and Harry couldn’t help but respect the aura of sheer control she kept about her with the students. Her transfiguration of the desk into a pig had also been rather startling, although something about it struck Harry as odd. The change hadn’t happened gradually, through the material as Harry was used to happening with his transfigurations. It had just suddenly been a pig, all at once; as the class had not exploded, Harry supposed that she was clearly not just feeding the particles directly. What was that spell?

McGonagall then stated that for a while they would be working mostly with theory, and Harry drew out his notebook and quill excitedly. They’d learn how this all worked!

However, as the class went on, it became depressingly clear to him that they were not, in fact, going to learn how the spell worked. Their notes consisted mostly on the way to focus and bring out their magic through their wands, and how to analyze the object in front of them so that it would change as they wished. It all revolved largely around _intent_ ; it made sense, in a way, but Harry still felt cheated. Intent was hardly a hard, solid explanation that he could work with. And it was all too generalized for Harry to even guess at what might be behind her explanations.

The only hint he could get as to the true nature of the spell was when McGonagall mentioned that no transfiguration was permanent, which made Harry shoot her an incredulous look for a moment. Not permanent? Never? That seemed to Harry like such a waste; sure, he could make non-permanent transfigurations himself, but that would require constantly feeding the magic, which, due to the inherently unstable nature of particles, was exceedingly draining. His permanent method was, on the other hand, very stable, and once he understood the basic idea of what he was doing he didn’t really need to work all that much; his magic somehow instinctively knew how to create whatever object he wanted. It bothered Harry that he didn’t really know _how_ this happened, as trusting magic so blindly was not something he preferred doing, but so far it worked fine and so he’d seen no reason not to keep doing it. He would, however, eventually figure out how his magic knew what an apple was and, more importantly, how to make it.

Despite trusting his magic to instinctively make an apple, however, he wasn’t sure he trusted it to create a live animal; he hadn’t yet dared try. Images of gory, unnatural creatures which belonged more in nightmares than reality popped up whenever he felt the urge.

McGonagall gave them all matches to attempt to turn into silver needles. The incantation was another which made Harry wince, and he ground his teeth in frustration.

He’d try. While he detested the fact that he was about to use the butchered, pseudo-Latin words, he had to accept he was inherently curious. Why did they work? Would they feel different than his own magic? What about the wand? He hadn’t yet used it to cast anything, and he found himself feeling wary of how it would respond to his attempts.

He drew out his holly wand, thinking nervously to its bloodwood counterpart which was hidden in his trunk. He’d try out the spell with that one later, see if it felt different, if anything different happened.

He looked at the match and raised his wand. He could already feel his magic drawing towards the wand, the same tug-of-war drawing slightly at his concentration. He said the incantation and then swished his wand as McGonagall had instructed, forcing his magic through the wand despite its ambiguous reluctance, focusing on his image of a needle and his understanding of its properties, and on his intention to change _this_ object into _that_ one.

The reaction was immediate. His match shifted instantaneously into a perfect needle, pointy and silver and with a delicately round top.

So did everyone else’s match in the room.

There were a few cries of glee, as students no doubt thought they had been successful in their attempts, while others looked on curiously, having either not yet cast the spell or knowing instinctively that they were not the ones which had resulted in its change. McGonagall, noticing the sudden commotion, approached the student closest to her, who turned out to be Gregory Goyle. She picked up his needle with surprise, turning it this way and that.

“Mr. Goyle, congratulations for being the first to do it. Everyone look at Mr. Goyle’s perfect transfiguration.”

There was a general cry of protest. Pansy raised her hand.

“Professor, Goyle wasn’t the only one to do it. In fact, I think everyone’s match turned into a needle simultaneously.”

McGonagall looked at her with disbelief. “Whatever do you mean, Ms. Parkinson?”

Pansy handed her her own needle. “I didn’t transfigure mine, and I’m pretty sure neither did Goyle.”

McGonagall took her needle, peering at it curiously. She then brought up Goyle’s and looked at them, comparing the two. Her face was unreadable. After a moment, she returned the two matches to Pansy and Goyle, and the turned to the rest of the class.

“Has this happened to everyone else as well?”

There was a general murmur of assent. McGonagall peered curiously at them all. “Well, does anyone here have anything to say about it?”

No one moved. Harry was very careful to keep his face blank and innocent; it was the lying face he presented to Sandy when she asked him how his magic was going along, and he reassured her that it was all sparks and lights. It was the face he was used to hiding behind when an adult saw him at the library alone and asked him where his parents were.

It was easy to hide when all anyone saw was an innocent, naïve child.

“It’s alright if you did it by accident. At your age it is not uncommon for you to lose control of your magic in events such as this one; you are still becoming used to your wands and magic. You will not get in trouble for these sorts of things. Now, of course, if the intention was that of a more…frivolous nature, then points would be deducted.” No one made any move to take responsibility. “Very well then,” McGonagall said, after a while, and then began moving through the class turning each of the needles back into matches so they could all keep practicing.

For the remainder of the class, Harry didn’t dare to try the spell again. He clearly needed to learn how to control his power better, as the wand was apparently some sort of conductor which either magnified or somehow made his magic flow easier. Harry was relatively sure that if he didn’t _push_ his magic quite so hard, he’d get the results he wanted, but wasn’t eager to try again in such a public setting. He’d have time later to practice in solitude.

By the time the bell rang, only Draco had managed to turn his match into a needle. McGonagall awarded Slytherin 5 points, and Draco looked smug.

“You know, I don’t think I saw you try the spell once,” Draco said as they packed their things, his voice deceptively casual. Harry shrugged, careful not to let himself tense. He debated telling Draco about how he’d been the one to cast the class-wide transfiguration, but decided that keeping his power unnoticed was more important than the blonde’s curiosity. It was starting to become clear to Harry that his ease with magic was not altogether that common, although he supposed that might well be attributed to the fact that he had quite a few years’ worth of training as a head-start on all of them. All the same, the fact that he’d been able to turn all the matches into needles at once, and yet even McGonagall had had to do it one at a time had bothered him slightly. Perhaps it had to do with control? He certainly hadn’t been _intending_ to cast a mass-spell, but as such neither did he have any idea just how he’d done it.

“I did try a few times,” he protested. It was partly true; he’d faked saying the incantation and wand movement, but he’d been careful to keep his magic in check within the wand. That wasn’t as easy as it sounded, because due to the constant push and pull with the wand he was constantly finding himself losing control on his magic as it would escape his hold when he was distracted by the odd feeling. As such, he’d only ‘practiced’ a few times before deeming it too risky to attempt it anymore and had settled for making vague motions with his wand, in case McGonagall looked his way. Obviously, Draco had noticed he was making no attempt at the spell.

Draco shot him a look which bespoke how weak he found Harry’s excuse. “It really isn’t that hard. I’m sure you could do it if you really tried.” His eyes suddenly focused on Harry’s wand as he was tucking it back in his bag. “Say, how well does that wand suit you?”

Harry tensed, shooting Draco an annoyed look. “Not here,” he murmured, and then walked out of the class, intent on going to the library. The Malfoy heir followed close behind.

“Well?” the blonde asked, impatiently. Harry felt his lips twitch with amusement at Draco’s imperious behavior. If it were any other person he might have found it annoying, but Draco carried his arrogance with a grace that bespoke his pureblood heritage and which Harry couldn’t help but accept as part of his friend. There was a certain roughness to it which occasionally grated slightly, but that was to be expected since Draco was only 11. He had many years yet to learn how to become the perfect pureblood heir.

“I find it suits me quite well, really, all things considered,” he said thoughtfully, “although it has a sort of love-hate relationship with my magic that is really quite distracting.”

Draco made a small noise of assent. “Was that why you weren’t casting the spell? Because your wand makes you uncomfortable?”

Harry grinned. “Yes, something like that.”

A few of the other Slytherins caught up to them then, Pansy immediately siding up to Draco.

“We’re going to the Common Room now. Are you coming too?” she asked.

“I’m going to the library right now, I’ll be there in a while,” Harry said quickly. “I’ll see you later, Draco, guys.” Then, before the blonde could follow or say anything, Harry escaped down the Hall into the groups of other students who had also just ended classes.

Thankfully, the route to the library was relatively simple, so Harry didn’t get lost and arrived there relatively fast. He felt a little bad to for simply leaving Draco like that, but he was with the other Slytherins, and Harry needed solitude for trying to figure out what on earth could be wrong with Quirrell.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Harry was shaken out of the book he was perusing on exotic magical parasites by the small magical timer he’d set to warn him when it was dinner time. He sighed, closing the book and returning it to the shelf he’d found it at.

He hadn’t found anything even resembling what Quirrell had. To be fair he’d managed to browse through only a few books, but they were all just so interesting that Harry couldn’t help but delve into other diseases which clearly had nothing to do with what he was looking for. Who knew there were so many maladies that were caused by magical means, and that there were indeed so many ways for one’s own organism to fail? He hadn’t read too much about each of them, more interested in getting a broad idea of how magical diseases worked; he’d search more in-depth if anything appeared to hint at what he wanted.

He left the library with one of the books stored into his book-bag. Madame Pince had looked at him suspiciously as he’d checked it out, as if wondering if he was planning on inflicting the various described diseases on someone. Harry merely smiled innocently at her.

There hadn’t been many other students at the library, and most of which _were_ there were much older than Harry, which didn’t surprise him. Back in Sandy’s library there were never many children, either. Most of the ones Harry had noticed had been, unsurprisingly, from Ravenclaw, although he thought he saw the bushy-haired Gryffindor from potions class there as well.

Dinner was a relaxed affair. Draco filled him in on the gossip he’d missed while at the library, which Harry listened to with only mild interest. Once back at the Common Room, as Draco retired to the bathroom, Harry drew the bed’s curtains and then cast silence and privacy spells, as well as an alarm to warn him in case Draco approached his bed. He then brought out the holly wand and two matches from his bag, laying them on his bed-sheets.

“ _Fies argentum acu,_ ” he said, motioning towards one of the matches with his hand; the match shifted, quickly, growing silver as it narrowed at the point and then the top became a small hoop. Within a second instead of the match lay a small, perfect silver needle. The other match stayed as it was. Harry picked them up, regarding them with care and making sure none of his magic had affected the other match. Yes, he still knew how to transfigure objects using his own methods, his own magic. Now, to try with the wand.

He turned the needle back into a match, and then drew his holly wand. He felt his magic once again begin to react without him willing it, and pushed the feeling down in annoyance. He concentrated on one of the matches, but this time instead of pushing his magic he simply pointed his wand at the match and said the incantation.

It was an odd feeling to suddenly feel as if a channel had been opened to his magic which he had not very carefully sectioned himself. His instinct was immediately to block it off, as if it was a glass of water which had suddenly sprung a leak. In his experience with magic, Harry was of the mentality that too little was preferable to too much. Too little resulted in a failed spell; too much resulted in an explosion and sometimes pain. Unsurprisingly, the match remained unchanged.

Harry regarded the wand with some wariness; he had not liked the feeling of his magic suddenly being somehow pulled from him. It hadn’t been a lot, and he wasn’t worried it would cause him harm, exactly, but it was an altogether different feeling from when he himself manipulated his magic’s movement within himself and into his surroundings, than when a foreign object _drew_ it from him. He didn’t like the feeling of losing control, however brief it was. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the spell – okay, so clearly _part_ of him didn’t trust the spell, but if he really thought it could cause him harm he would be taking many more precautions with it that simple privacy spells.

After a few moments, he cast the spell again; this time, expecting the odd feeling, he shut down on his instinctive reaction to break off the connection immediately and allowed the wand to draw out his magic.

It was a rather fast spell, the amount of magic necessary minimal with such a small object. The match Harry had pointed at changed into a needle immediately, and the other one remained unchanged. He grinned at his success, placing all his materials back in his bag.

_I still much prefer my own magic_ , Harry concluded as he lay in his bed, taking down his privacy spells. _It feels like…cheating when I do it with the wand. Cheapened, somehow. There’s no challenge, no thought, no connection to it; I feel like I’m a well someone’s drawing water out of, rather than a wizard actually casting a spell. I feel like some else is doing all the work and I’m just sitting there uselessly._ He frowned. _I accept that it’s probably much quicker and easier to learn, but is that better? One will be limited by what spells they know, and the limitations of those spells._

Something in his gut twisted with unease once again; ever since the first time he’d used his powers, he was always aware of the magic coursing through him, thrumming under his skin like blood and life. He couldn’t imagine not _feeling_ that, couldn’t remember how he could have possibly withstood that sensation without knowing something was missing, that something was _wrong_.

  _If they learn all spells in that easy, detached way, do they ever really manage to connect with their magic? Do they ever_ feel _it?_

Somehow, he doubted it.

And he couldn’t help but pity them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively fast chapter! Hopefully now that my block is over I'll have quicker chapters to pull up. I'll be starting college in a couple months, and I'll see how it all goes from there, but for now enjoy.  
> Thank you all so very much for your comments and kudos! I wish I could answer all your questions, but that's what suspense is all about :)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	10. Transpicio

For the next few weeks, Harry’s life fell into a bit of a routine. Classes, reading, talking, learning; he’d found himself becoming more and more interested in the subject of Runes and how they tied in with Rituals. He was starting to get the impression that the spells that normal wizards used where not, as he’d first assumed, some sort of made-up language, but rather a short incantation to activate a ritual which, through a more convoluted process than the one Harry used, called upon their magic to perform as the wizard wished. Although none of the books in the library went very far into the subject, it was clear to him that all these spells themselves were actually much more intricate than they first appeared.

Harry had started developing his own theory about how these spells were created, from what scraps of information he could find. He planned to eventually find better, more specialized books on the subject, perhaps in Diagon Alley, or in the Malfoy Library, whenever he got the chance to go there. There was a Restricted Section in the Library at Hogwarts, but Harry wasn’t exactly sure how to access it. He was relatively sure he would have to get a teacher’s pass, but wasn’t willing to explain why he was looking for those books. From what he’d read from the books he _had_ access to, the entire area of magic which dealt with creating new spells was considered a rather… complicated subject, in more ways than one.

Regardless, Harry had begun to form his own theories about how magic and its various manifestations worked together to create complicated webs. On one hand there was the pure, direct form of magic best exemplified by his own spells; one intention, one cause, one effect. They were useful in the sense that they were accessible directly, given he had enough power himself; he needed no movements or words – words certainly helped focus his mind on the task, but they weren’t _necessary_ – and provided a clean result. He’d labeled it as ‘bare magic’.

On the other hand, the ritualistic magic which governed the common populace was much more complex, and dealt with various levels of passive magical effects which Harry suspected most people had no idea were even there; he’d labeled this as ‘intricate magic’. Although no books dealt directly with the subject, from reading on how Rituals could be set up to include various active spells as well as passive ones – chaining them, for example, or simply layering them for simultaneous activation – Harry had gotten the idea that most, if not all, spells which were usually used through wands were actually part of a much larger and complex web of magic. This web was what allowed various spells to be ‘woven’ into wards or chained to create more powerful spells, as well as canceled or otherwise modified by other spells; it allowed an experienced wizard to create complex phenomena from much simpler spells by resorting to what Harry termed ‘recycling’, the reuse of already-created spells to achieve a certain effect. It was a practical, efficient method which Harry greatly appreciated, as it did not require the wizard to waste magic creating an effect from the ground when a much quicker method had already been devised and translated to a wand-movement and chant. Now that he was starting to get a better idea on why wizards were so dependent on wands, Harry could at least accept that there were quite a few valid points to the whole debate, and would have been content to accept the reasoning.

Except for the fact that _no books talked about it_.

Harry had never felt so frustrated, even during the first months of trying to learn Latin, when most letters still looked like gibberish and he didn’t even know what some of those words meant in _English_.

He’d found a few rare books that _hinted_ at the various passive properties of spells, and even one that mentioned how Runes could be used to activate certain parts and not others or even add more sections if needed, but none of them stated the topic outright, even less _how_ to do it. Even after almost a month of visiting the library almost daily and staying up until the wee hours of morning perusing any and all books which might provide him with answers, he’d still found practically nothing at all. It was very frustrating, but Harry consoled himself with the thought that he still had much of the library to go through, as well as various other sources from which he could procure more books. He was sure his intuitions about how spells worked was right; it made sense and it was an intelligent, respectable reason for something which had so irritated him with how wasteful it seemed to be. He simply didn’t know for sure yet, but he _would_ satisfy his curiosity.

 

* * *

 

On Halloween, Harry decided to avoid the Feast. It was the first time he’d been aware that that was the date his parents had died, and although he wasn’t going to cry or mope, he also couldn’t quite bring himself to show the cheer everyone seemed to demand on this date. Besides, he’d never celebrated Halloween before; the Dursleys certainly never allowed him to go out for candy, and Harry had never really felt the urge, so absenting himself from the Feast didn’t bother him all that much. Draco had tactfully prevented the others from asking too many questions, knowing perfectly well why Harry ‘wasn’t feeling well’, and so Harry had been left alone in the Common Room, surrounded by finery and a warm fire, his nose inside a Runes book.

When the other students suddenly returned much earlier than Harry had predicted they would, he knew something was wrong. This was confirmed by Draco, who told him about how Quirrell had suddenly rushed into the Great Hall, exclaiming about a troll in the dungeons, and abruptly collapsed.

“I can’t believe Dumbledore sent us back to our Common Rooms directly,” he snarled, “did he _forget_ our Common Room is in the dungeon? How absolutely, fantastically convenient! I could have the old idiot _convicted_ for criminal negligence.”

Harry couldn’t help but agree with the fuming blonde; it did sound terribly dangerous to send a group of students to where the troll had been assumed to be. No one had been hurt, but it was still hazardously careless, assuming Dumbledore simply hadn’t thought about the consequences of his order. The idea that the old Wizard had done it on purpose was there, as well, but he didn’t voice it aloud. He knew Draco was thinking along the same lines, but didn’t think it wise to outright state such a possibly dangerous train of thought. Harry had no illusions about just how far adults could be trusted, and Dumbledore’s white, white magic made him extremely nervous.

 

* * *

 

It was late November, and Harry was sitting in his Defense class, wondering idly as he usually did about the dark magic around Quirrell’s head. It never seemed to stray lower than the man’s neck, or away, except the few times it had reached out to attack Harry. The man’s lighter magic was distributed evenly around the rest of his body, as was the magic of all the other people Harry had seen, so it wasn’t that Quirrell himself was strange. Only the dark magic.

It was always around Quirrell’s head. Just hanging, twirling around and around his head. Much like the turban.

The realization hit him like a punch, and Harry had to bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud in annoyance. Of course! The turban! How had he not _thought of that_.

He brushed aside his irritation with his own absent-mindedness at not having noticed the obvious link between the dark magic’s position and the man’s head-wear, focusing on what to do now that he had a new lead on the Professor’s plight. An idea popped into his head.

He hesitated for a moment, before thinking that he might as well; he was going to make himself crazy with worry anyway, and he wasn’t exactly about to go spreading word of what he saw. After all, the spell would only reveal to his own eyes what was under the turban; he’d used it before to see through walls, mostly for knowing where the Dursleys were in the house. He’d trained for a long while to be able to focus the spell on a particular section of an object he wanted to see through, and although he still had trouble controlling the spell’s visibility and duration, he felt reasonably certain he was capable of using it successfully in this case.

“ _Transpicio_ ,” he murmured, focusing on the turban around Quirrell’s head.

And, as the turban faded from his sight, immediately wished he hadn’t.

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles, rubbing between his eyes with a slow sigh. When his eyes met Harry’s again, there was no sparkle there, and Harry was struck by the thought that Dumbledore must be very old indeed.

“Are you sure, my boy?”

Harry nodded. Dumbledore’s face was a mask of resignation and sadness, and Harry almost wished he could lie to the man, say it had all been a joke, if only he’d stop looking like his worst nightmares had come true. Oh his perch, Dumbledore’s phoenix trilled lightly, as if to perhaps offer some reassurance.  

Part of Harry was incredibly curious. What on earth could that _thing_ be? The first idea that had popped up in his mind was demon possession, but he hadn’t yet had the chance to look that sort of thing up so he couldn’t be sure. The other part of him wanted nothing to do with the situation. If it was enough to make a wizard as clearly powerful as Dumbledore look so haunted, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know more. He did not exactly trust Dumbledore, but he had gotten this far by knowing and accepting his own limitations, and he was perfectly aware that Quirrell’s situation was entirely out of his league. Therefore, the decision had come down to telling Snape, his head of House, or Dumbledore. Eventually he decided on the Headmaster, if only because he supposed Snape would have come to him anyway, and so assumed the situation would be dealt with much more cleanly if performed straight from the top. He didn’t trust him, but he also couldn’t not _do_ something.

 “Thank you, Mr. Potter, for coming to me with this,” Dumbledore finally said after a long moment of silence. He seemed to have drawn himself out of his somber thoughts enough to smile at him, if still quite sadly. “Rest assured that I will take care of this…issue. You may return to your Common Room.”

“Thank you sir,” Harry said, and left his office. The dismissal left him with a vague sense of dread for his Defense Professor, but he supposed the situation was now out of his hands. He did not regret his decision to involve Dumbledore, or of having looked beneath the turban, but that did not stop a chill from running down his spine.

Dinner had ended a while ago, but since Harry had gone directly to Dumbledore’s office after it, he had still a few minutes until curfew; even so, he met no students in the Halls. The walk back to the Slytherin Common Rooms from the Headmaster’s office was somewhat long, but Harry was so absorbed in his thoughts that he soon found himself standing in front of the snake statue.

He let out a long sigh, attempting to compose himself before facing his school-mates. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but it did not bode well for Quirrell.  

The statue suddenly moved, curling to look at him more directly. Harry started slightly; he was still not all that used to inanimate objects suddenly becoming a whole lot less inanimate, even after more than a month in the castle. Even the paintings startled him from time to time, when they would start talking at him when he wasn’t expecting it.

_§What troubles you, heir?§_

Harry blinked at the snake curiously. After the first time the snake had welcomed him into the Common Room, he’d tried to listen in to how it greeted other students to see if it changed its words or perhaps said anything different to them, but he hadn’t heard it speaking to anyone else. He wondered if perhaps it only did that when students were alone, for whatever reason; the castle had proven itself peculiar enough that this would not have surprise him. He hesitated for a moment, wondering at whether speaking to a statue would be considered odd, even if it did appear sentient.

 _§Nothing, really. There have simply been strange events going on§_ he replied.

The snake seemed to be considering his response, but it was hard to tell with its stone features.

 _§Very well§_ it finally replied, bowing its head slightly. § _If you are in need of assistance or information, I would be glad to be of help. I and my kin are forever at your service.§_

 _§Thank you§_ Harry said slowly, somewhat unsettled at the snake’s words and unsure of what they implied. What did that mean? Was this a sort of House guide? Quite convenient, if so, but Harry didn’t think that was all that was going on here. _§I will keep that in mind.§_

The snake nodded in acquiescence, repositioning itself before suddenly opening the door to the Common Room. Harry frowned slightly in surprise, as he had not given the password; the snake clearly knew he was from Slytherin, but Harry hadn’t seen it allowing other students from Slytherin to pass, even much older ones which the snake must by now ‘know’.  Perhaps, once again, it was because he was alone? Somehow, he doubted it.

Concluding that he wasn’t going to figure out the snake by just standing stupidly outside the Common Room, he quickly walked inside. A glance around revealed that most students had already retired to their dorm rooms, although there were still a few around who were working or talking. The only first-years were Blaise and Draco, who sat reading by the fire. Blaise sat on the edge of Harry’s couch, which was slightly removed from the rest of the chairs in the circle; the light from the fire shone on his captivating features, highlighting his high-cheekbones and casting a slightly red sheen on his hair. Harry could sense more than one person casting the Zabini heir interested glances, some less subtle than others.

Draco had situated himself on the largest armchair near the center, close enough that they were still within the same circle but with a clear distance between them. There was a sense of cold tension which hung in the air between both purebloods, quiet, careful not to let their eyes stray from their respective books even for a second.

Part of Harry wanted to escape to his room directly, avoiding the strange scene, but he eventually decided that he might as well join them for a few minutes; if they had any questions as to his lateness, he’d rather answer them now. He approached the pair and sat down on his couch next to Blaise.

“What did Dumbledore say?” Blaise asked quietly, his eyes not leaving his book. Harry sighed; he was honestly not all that surprised that Blaise had figured out where he’d gone. The dark boy was exceedingly observant, and Harry knew he’d noticed how focused he was on Quirrell.

“How did you know I talked to Dumbledore?” he probed back, keeping his voice low so Draco would not overhear; whispering was common enough in Slytherin that no one paid it much mind, unless they had a specific reason to.

His question was not intended to make Blaise doubt him, but to make sure that no one else had noticed. Draco was also quite observant, but Harry trusted Blaise to keep his mouth shut more than he did Draco; while the blonde was good at keeping important secrets, he had a tendency to gossip about things he considered less vital. A face growing out the back of their stuttering, incompetent Defense teacher head would probably land in the latter category, as far as the blonde was concerned. Blaise, on the other hand, did not intervene when the other students whispered amongst themselves, although Harry was privately sure that the dark boy was still always listening; even so, he’d never heard him contribute to the local rumor mill.

Blaise gave a small shrug. “If you were someone else I might have thought you’d talk to Snape, as he tends to be more understanding with Slytherins than the Headmaster. You, however, would rather be direct and involve as few people as possible, and so going directly to the Headmaster, the top-most power in this school, is what I’d assume you’d do. You are a very practical person.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “How flattering to know that you’ve been observing me so closely,” he said, his anger seeping through the falsely honeyed tone. Blaise had a tendency to get on his nerves when he was bored, and the Zabini heir’s words were clearly meant to make him uneasy.

Blaise’s green eyes met his, confirming Harry’s suspicions as they flashed with amusement.

“I would be a fool not to.”

Harry pushed down the urge to scowl, not wanting to draw Draco’s attention to their conversation. It was already moving somewhere he’d rather it not, and yet had had to deal with rather often lately, largely thanks to the same boy now watching him with lazy amusement.

“It’s your own time you’re wasting, I suppose,” he finally replied, managing to sound flippant despite his clear irritation. Blaise’s lip curled into a slight grin, his eyes sharp and knowing.

“Oh, I am perfectly certain that my time is _not_ being wasted.”

Harry did scowl then, standing from the couch and leaving to his room without replying to Blaise’s mocking tone. He was sure Draco would have noticed him leaving so abruptly, but he honestly could not stand Blaise when he started making comments like _that_.

Harry knew it was strange how unsettled he became whenever someone showed an interest in him, but he couldn’t help it. He simply got exceedingly uncomfortable whenever anyone thought he was in any way remarkable; being complimented had always been an almost painful situation for him, even with someone like Sandy, who he genuinely likes. She’d quickly learned that he did not react well to direct praise, and had resorted to indirect methods of showing him how much she appreciated and was proud of his accomplishments, such as by getting him interesting books and articles she knew he’d like.

Blaise had noticed early on how awkward he got if he did particularly well on a piece of work and one of the Professors singled him out. The first time Blaise had complimented him, a comprehensive commendation on his ability at Potions, Harry had choked on air, stuttered a denial and practically ran out of the room, avoiding Blaise for the rest of the day.

Since then, Blaise had displayed a decisively cruel streak, by making comments and observations on Harry’s abilities or character which had him either scowling or running away, if only to avoid the words. Harry had started noticing this was done mostly whenever the other boy was bored, and so had taken to avoiding him in those moments.

It seemed Blaise took certain enjoyment out of watching Harry squirm, and Harry didn’t know how to make him _stop_. He’d tried pretending that the boy’s words didn’t make him as uncomfortable as they clearly did, but that never worked out very well. He’d avoid Blaise completely, but the truth was that when he wasn’t teasing Harry, they actually got along very well. Blaise kept mostly to himself, but sometimes could be drawn out into a discussion on a subject Harry was currently interested in; Harry had been pleasantly surprised to find that Blaise was also interested in a great variety of topics, and although he did not read as much as Harry did, knew enough to provide a more than decent conversation partner.

Even so, despite slightly resenting the boy for every so often needling him in his odd issue, he had to accept that he appreciated the fact that it was more of a personal dispute between them rather than an actual attempt at hurting him. In Slytherin, such weaknesses were open invitations for others to use against you, and Harry was well aware that Blaise was doing him a huge favor by not announcing it to anyone else, or ever really using it against him.

Still, it did make him angry from time to time.

 

* * *

 

Draco came in just as Harry was coming out of the bathroom, closing their door behind him quietly; he appeared nonchalant, but Harry could see the undercurrent of worry in the blonde’s expression.

“What happened?” he asked, moving over to his trunk and gathering his nighttime supplies. Harry crossed his arms, evening out his expression.

“Nothing, just Blaise being his usual charming self,” he replied sarcastically, still somewhat annoyed. Draco looked at him curiously.

“What’s going on between you and Blaise?”

Harry frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sometimes it seems like you’re best friends, and others like you’re seconds away from cursing him,” Draco said.

Harry’s expression froze for a moment, before he smiled widely and interlaced his fingers.

“Oh, Draco! You don’t have to worry, you will always be my bestest friend in the world!” he said, his voice sickeningly sweet.

A surprised chortle escaped Draco, who shot him a dirty look as Harry laughed. “’Bestest’ isn’t even a word, you retrograde idiot,” he snapped, humor and fondness softening the insult. He gave a long-suffering sigh as Harry merely smiled innocently at him, turning to go into the bathroom. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you changed the subject there, Potter, but I’ll let it slide this once.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at the blonde as he closed the door, lying back on his bed tiredly as his thoughts once again turned to his Defense teacher. Part of him felt bad for having exposed his secret to Dumbledore, but he did not regret his actions; he didn’t think there was anything else he could have done, anyway. It wasn’t like he could just let the teacher continue on after having found out he had a _face growing out of his head_. The books he’d read on magical diseases certainly hadn’t covered _that_ particular symptom, and who knew how bad it could get? If it was demon possession, who knew if one day he’d start attacking all of the students much more violently than he’d ever attacked Harry?

He sort of wished Dumbledore had given him some indication of what he was going to do about it, but honestly, he’d escaped as soon as the man had allowed. His excuse about being curious as to what was under Quirrell’s turban had been rather weak, and he counted himself lucky that Dumbledore had not asked him what spell he’d used to see through it. He’d need to find one and make sure he could cast it correctly as soon as possible.

A tired sigh escaped him. Hopefully, he would never see anything like that horrifying face ever again.

 

* * *

 

“He escaped?”

“Yes. He transcended the confines of the circle as if it was not there. It appears our fears are well founded.”

“So it begins.”

“Sadly, I do not believe it ever ended, although I had hoped for more time. It is unfortunate that Quirinus had to fall into His machinations.”

“I believe it was during his expedition in the forests of Albania that he came into contact with Him.”

“Indeed. We must keep watch over the area; see if anyone knows of any strange events from the past decade. It might give us some insight as to how powerful He is now.”

“We clearly must also tighten the security here in Hogwarts.”

“We had our suspicions of Quirinus, certainly, but the fact that He managed to remain undetected within the school’s walls for this long is exceedingly troubling. If he had not been discovered so soon…”

“You say Potter came to you with the news?”

“Indeed. Simple childish curiosity led where he could not have imagined.”

“How very fortunate that Potter would turn out to be rather more Gryffindor than expected. He is already helping save the world again.”

“He has no idea what awaits him.”

“That may be so for now, but I do not believe you can keep him in the dark for much longer.”

“What makes you say that, my boy?”

“Potter is quite smart; smarter than anyone expected, him being the child of his blasted father. He is also best friends with Lucius Malfoy’s son. I do not believe it will take him long to figure out that he has an important role in the upcoming war.”

“He is also the child of his mother, Severus.”

“I am much too aware of that fact.”

“Nevertheless, I believe that it would be best for us to allow him a normal childhood before the fate of the Wizarding World is pushed onto his shoulders. We owe him that at least.”

“You truly believe this child will be the one to end this dark period?”

“He will not be alone.”

“No. He will not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Thank you all so very much for your kudos and lovely comments! I love reading what you all think, there are so many great ideas and interesting opinions; I could not ask for more awesome readers! 
> 
> Comments on Harry:  
> I'm glad that so many of you find Harry's character interesting; I try to make him realistic and relatable, and I hope that that comes through. He has issues - how could he not after 11 years of near-total neglect? - but Sandy and his love for books and reading have allowed him to adjust relatively well to the world around him. Still, he's not going to be your stereotypical eleven-year-old child; there are some facets of his personality that are well developed for his age while others are stunted or damaged, and that will show. 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter! Thank you for reading! :)


	11. Susurro

Harry growled in frustration as he glared at the blood-wand in his hand.

What had Ollivander said? That the wand would serve him better than any other wand ever would?

“Bloody stupid thing,” he snapped. “Maybe he meant the wand would serve me best in the sense that it would force me to use wandless magic indefinitely because _it doesn’t work at all!”_

He placed the wand on his bedside table and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He wouldn’t normally be this irritated, but he hadn’t slept the last two night because he’d been caught up on the Runes book, and he was always a little bit cranky when he hadn’t slept. He was only thankful it was a Saturday, and so he had no classes to attend; he didn’t think he’d have been able to pay attention anyway.

“Ok, once more,” he said finally, after managing to get his emotions back under control. He picked up the wand, flinching slightly at the pain in his hand, and then turned to the book on his desk.

“Accio,” he said, taking care to pronounce the word carefully and clearly.

He felt his magic respond to his chant, thrumming under his skin as it prepared to activate; however, the moment he felt his magic reach the wand’s handle, it suddenly seemed to _sink_. The book, of course, didn’t move at all, and Harry cut off his magic’s access to the wand as he felt the spell dissipate into the red wood. He glared at the wand.

“I can’t cast anything if you keep eating my spells! What are you even doing with the magic?”

“Are you talking to your wand again?” Draco’s exasperated voice broke his rant. He glanced up to the blonde slouching casually against the door’s frame, grinning at his irritation. Harry tried to glare, but couldn’t properly summon up the energy to do so properly. Draco seemed to notice his exhaustion and frowned, closing the door behind him as he approached Harry.

“How much did you sleep last night?” he asked, his gaze tracing the dark circles under Harry’s eyes. Harry sighed.

“I didn’t,” he replied, somewhat apologetically. “I’m tired.”

“I imagine you would be,” Draco retorted, placing his hands on his hips in a way that reminded Harry of Petunia when she reprimanded him. He grinned a bit. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Harry shrugged. “Just reading. I don’t really mind not sleeping that much.”

Draco looked at his disbelieving. “Yes, well, that’s all well and good, Potter, but you can’t not sleep and expect to be alright! You should try to rest today.”

Harry crossed his arms, stubborn. “I’m fine. I just need to get this stupid wand to work and then I’ll…”

“No,” Draco interrupted. “I know you like to practice, and I know you like to read, but it’s not good for your health. Rest, and then you’ll be able to practice all you want with a clear head. You can’t tell me you’re thinking properly right now.”

Harry knew he wasn’t. It wasn’t the first time he’d forgone sleep for his curiosity, and he was well acquainted with the strain the lack put on his body and mind. At least he hadn’t forgotten to eat.

“Fine,” Harry acquiesced after a few seconds of Draco looking at him with determination. “I’ll sleep for a while, okay?”

“You do that,” Draco replied, looking slightly relieved as he smiled. “Can’t have you ruining my image by looking like an Inferius.”

“I appreciate your concern, Draco dearest,” Harry said drily, but honestly. He sincerely appreciated the fact that the blonde cared about his well-being, without being overly demanding about it. He usually only offered his help, but every once in a while would put his foot down when he thought it was important.

“Don’t let it get to your head, I already don’t know how your ego fits in this room,” Draco said, leaving the room with a wave as he returned to the Common Room. Another thing Harry liked about his friend was the fact that, once his point was made, he trusted Harry to follow through and did not push.

He sighed, giving the wand one last disgruntled look before placing it back in his trunk. He lay down in bed, casting off his shoes as he pulled on the covers.

He needed to find out why the wand wasn’t working. Maybe it was defective? And what on earth was it _doing_ with Harry’s magic? It seemed to just be sucking it out. The only clue he had was that some spells vanished without a trace, while others trickled out, managing to have a slight effect.

He’d already read far in advance of this year’s curriculum of spells, which he personally thought were quite few and relatively useless, and had as such tried out a variety of spells which he thought might somehow affect the wand’s reaction. It did work, to a certain extent, but Harry was not yet sure what the difference was. None of the spells managed to emerge fully, however, which frustrated him to no end. He was not used to his magic denying him in such a way.

 _I hate wands_. _I wouldn’t even bother with this one except that I can’t_ not _bother with it._

He fell asleep thinking on his spells and the wand that refused to work.

 

* * *

 

When Harry awoke a few hours later, his mind was clear and sharp, and he mentally thanked Draco for forcing him to take a rest. He knew he sometimes got carried away.

He still wasn’t sure what to do about the wand, however. He noted it was close to dinner, and so went to the Common Room to join the other first-years as he thought further on the problem. He’d experiment later.

He had tried out 6 spells in total; Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, Bombarda, Reparo, Accio and Reducto. They required various levels of skill and focus on his part, and he’d already cast them all with the holly wand, which had worked, although not exactly as well as Harry would have liked.

The main problem was that his magic kept vacillating between being strongly attracted to and repelled from the holly wand, like a magnet that keeps switching poles. He kept dropping objects halfway with Leviosa and Accio, and his Lumos would either blind him or pitter out inadvertently. Reparo would sometimes only fix an object halfway, and his Bombarda and Reducto would either barely scratch anything or utterly obliterate the object Harry aimed at. He had, of course, been careful to erect a barrier with his _wandless_ magic before trying anything out; his wariness was well rewarded, especially when Reducto had caused a rock he’d aimed at to burst explosively, and only his strong _Tegmentum_ had prevented him from being impaled by the many missile-like stone shards.

It wasn’t the most dangerous experimentation he’d ever been involved in, but it was definitely in the top ten. He was only glad that he was not going to have to perform these spells in class for a while; he wasn’t exactly looking forward to charges of murder.

After having witnessed this remarkable spectacle, he was understandably disappointed when the blood-wand, which he’d been so excited – if wary – to try out, had barely reacted to his magic.

He mentally categorized the spells he’d cast from least to most reactive. Least had been Lumos, which had literally done nothing; not anything Harry could detect anyway, and he’d even darkened the room as much as he could to see any effects. Most reactive had been Leviosa; that spell had pretty much functioned as expected.

Harry had initially made a hypothesis about the spells he was using, once he’d figured out the blood wand was so…picky. He’d thought spells like Leviosa and Accio would not have reacted all that much, while Reducto and Bombarda would work better; the spells’ aggressiveness factor made him think that, perhaps, a wand so allegedly Dark would prefer spells with more power behind them.

This hypothesis was blasted right out of the hypothetical water as neither Bombarda and Reducto, nor Leviosa and Accio, reacted similarly, despite having relatively similar effect and magical requirements.

While Reducto had managed to nearly fully explode the object he’d pointed to, Bombarda had barely pushed it back a few inches, even with Harry placing all his focus behind the spell. On the other hand, while his Leviosa was nearly perfect, Accio had, like Bombarda, merely moved the object a few inches. Harry had no idea why, but still noted his results.

He had, however, appreciated that his control was much more steady with the blood-wand as opposed to the holly one, when his magic was always fully willing to interact with it – even if sometimes a bit too much, in Harry’s opinion. His Leviosa wouldn’t win any competitions, but at least he wasn’t dropping the object halfway. He was only glad that in Charms he hadn’t yet had to demonstrate anything, as with the holly wand he was liable to end up breaking someone’s skull if his magic decided to be tricky.

On entering the Common Room he quickly approached the fireplace and sat down in his usual couch. Without Blaise there he was allowed a few moments of peace before Draco turned to him with a satisfied look.

“Thank Merlin you took my advice. You looked like you were about to pass out,” he drawled. Harry shrugged, but shot him a thankful look. Draco nodded at the gesture and then went back to reading. Harry peered over, noting with vague interest it was a book on Herbology for 2nd year students. He wasn’t all that interested in Herbology, however, and so sat back in his chair. Draco suddenly turned to look at him.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

Harry blinked. “Staying at the castle,” he answered hesitantly. He’d signed up yesterday, just as the sheets were being hung. He’d debated staying in Diagon Alley, but eventually decided that he preferred to stay at Hogwarts. Less hassle that way.

Draco nodded slowly, looking at him curiously; Harry supposed he wanted to ask why on earth he wasn’t going home to his relatives, but wasn’t sure how to broach the subject properly. Suddenly, the blonde stood up.

“Well, it’s nearly time for dinner. I believe I shall be going.”

He then swept away from the group, which hurried to pack their things as well and follow after their standing leader. Harry chuckled at their actions and followed at a more subdued pace, getting lost in his thoughts as he wandered down the castle’s pathways.

He hated not knowing more about these spells, but he had quickly realized that there was only so much information which could be found in the usual student sections of the Hogwarts library. He was certain that if he could access the Restricted Area some of his doubts would be answered but he still couldn’t figure out how to get a pass without arousing suspicion. After all, there had to be a reason those books were in the Restricted Section, and Harry had long since learned that, sometimes, specific ignorance told others things about yourself that you would rather have remained hidden. He’d seen what kind of utter segregation could result from a young man asking innocently, ignorantly, if what Stalin had done had really been _all that bad_. Harry could have answered that that depended on your point of view and just how much of a ruthless, cold-hearted pragmatist you were, but had decided not to intervene as the young man was subsequently treated to an explanation which consisted of much more anger and less facts than Harry usually preferred.

The problem Harry really saw in the entire system was not that people had ‘moral codes’, so to speak, but that making any attempt at questioning them resulted in public humiliation and segregation instead of a logical discussion about human rights, or whatever the issue was. He was smart enough to realize that there were certain topics which were Not-To-Be-Touched-Ever, such as racism or genocide, but the fact of the matter was that, honestly, Harry thought that was pretty stupid. There was no shame in discussing a subject, no matter how controversial; getting angry at racial discrimination did not help those being discriminated against, because humiliation and guilt were poor ways to reach an agreement which benefited as many people as much as possible.

Harry personally was against racism, but not because of quaint, nonsensical reasons such as ‘all humans are equal’. He’d heard that one way too much, and it bothered him that so many people considered it a valid reason. What did that statement even mean? Equal in what sense? Height? Intelligence? Rights? Nationality? And what did that equality imply? Same chances? But what if one person is more intelligent? Should they get paid more? Would that be _fair_? He is _smarter_ , after all!

Because, as far as he could see, the statement wasn’t even wrong – it just made no sense; there was no way to properly define words such as ‘equality’ or ‘fairness’, not in a way which wouldn't stop making sense a few years down the road. Sure, it might be nice to say that people _should_ have equal rights, but which rights? And who decided what people should or shouldn’t have? As far as Harry knew from the various history books he’d read, more – and more terrible – wars had been fought over people thinking they knew _‘_ what was good for others’ than just about anything else.

But, he digressed. Harry, personally, did not think all humans were equal; some of them had qualities he believed should be actively discriminated against, such as stupidity, bigotry and whininess. He just thought that taking into account the amount of melanin in one’s skin when discussing one’s ability to work as anything other than a sunscreen tester was an irrelevant and inefficient filter.

He wasn’t saying having passion about the subject was a bad thing, but simply saying ‘women and men are _equal_ ’, no matter in how loud a voice or which how much conviction, wasn’t much different from saying that ‘women who bleed are _witches_ ’, give or take a few hundred years. One resulted in clapping, the other in being burned at the stake, and both were lacking any sort of logical support.

Harry had, however, long since accepted that most humans were illogical, emotional creatures, and that sometimes reason was not the fastest way to get a point across. Still, it annoyed him.

What had recently been bothering Harry was that it seemed to him to be the same sentiment which was often turned towards Dark and Light magic. So far, he’d not found any _particular_ reason why Dark Magic was so discriminated against. Oh, there were plenty of books referencing its use in terrible torture and inhuman rituals, but Harry had seen no proof that the magic used in these practices was even Dark, much less any comments on why Light magic couldn’t be used to make similar rituals _._ He strongly disliked arbitrary connotations, such as ‘any bad magic is Dark’, because that seemed awfully changeable. So far, the only proof he had that there even _existed_ any such thing as dark and light magic was the auras he could see around Witches and Wizards because, otherwise, he might have started to doubt the separation completely.

 _Speaking of Light and Dark magic_ , Harry thought as he pushed open the doors of the Great Hall and caught a glimpse of the Headmaster. Once again, the man’s _whiteness_ threw him off, and he quickly turned his gaze back to the Slytherin table.

As he filled his plate with food, he tried to concentrate on detecting the auras on his classmates. It was much more difficult with children, he’d quickly realized, although he wasn’t exactly sure why. He suspected it had to do with their magical cores still developing, but there was a faint suspicion in the back of his head. He’d long since wondered what dictated a person’s aura. The few books he’d found which spoke on the subject implied it was tied largely with genetics, although a few had seemed to suggest that usage of certain magic also played a part. This suggestion was what had sparked Harry’s interest in the idea that there were certain spells which could be Dark or Light, rather than simply being an attribute of each person. However, he hadn’t really managed to explore the idea too far. No matter how he tried he couldn’t see any color in spells he or others used; this, of course, didn’t mean there _wasn’t_ , but Harry had no way to detect it, and so could only guess. He supposed that if that was the case, it would at least explain some of what had been bothering him, but it still did not assuage his greatest doubt.

He could see no reason why Dark magic would be in any way more useful to create more…evil?...wrong? spells that so-called Light magic. For one, he could think of a dozen designated Light spell which, with a  bit of imagination, could be used to either severely main or painfully kill a person, all without breaking much of a sweat, so it wasn’t the violence or cruelty factor. That didn’t prove much either way, of course, but Harry was frustrated at his lack of access to knowledge. There _had_ to be a way to know!

An idea struck him. If he could sense people’s auras, it was feasible that there existed a person which could sense a spell’s color, and so know if it was dark or light! Of course, he would have preferred an innate understanding of why a spell would be either Dark or Light, but accepted that it could be an arbitrary feature, such as whether a food was sweet or bitter. There was no _reason_ for foods to be that way, it was simply the way their molecules were arranged and how brains interpreted those chemicals. Either way, at least it would help Harry get a grasp on, if not how magic worked, what he could predict would happen in various cases. There was only so far down one could go in looking for ‘why’, after all.

“Have you finished the Defense homework yet?” Draco asked him suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. Harry nodded.

“Yesterday. Merlin knows Snape would have my hide if I missed one of his essays.”

“Still glad Quirrell got that suspicious illness, though,” Blaise interjected from his other side. Harry turned to see the wizard grinning lazily at him as he sat down.

“Good evening, Blaise. I see you’ve finally deigned us with your presence,” Harry said. Blaise gave a low chuckle which had a group of 2nd year girls swooning, much to Harry’s amusement and irritation.

“Why, did you miss me, dearest?”

“Like I miss having a fever.”

“If seeing me gets you all hot and bothered, you should have said,” Blaise purred.

Harry choked on his pumpkin juice and barely managed to refrain from spraying it all over Pansy. Beside him, Draco snorted.

“Blaise, control yourself. You’ll give poor Harry a heart attack one of these days.”

Blaise’s grin widened.

“Ah, Draco, it’s all in good fun! Besides, I wouldn’t bother if Harry weren’t so…responsive.”

Harry sputtered, his face tingeing pink as he shot Blaise a withering glare. The other boy merely laughed good-naturedly for a moment before turning suddenly serious.

“Speaking of sudden, suspicious departures, have any of you heard the recent whispers?”

Harry frowned in confusion but beside him Draco tensed, and he could see Greengrass’ eyes widen with alarm on Draco’s other side.

“This is not the place to speak of such things, Zabini,” the blonde said, his voice cold and sharp, and Harry wondered what on earth they were talking about. In front of him, Pansy shot Blaise an alarmed look before turning down to her food.

Blaise sighed, looking bored. “There is no place to speak of these things, Malfoy. Not lately.”

Draco’s lips pursed. “That may be so, but there are worse places than others. The Great Hall, for one, as opposed to our Common Room.”

Harry knew better than to ask out loud, since this was clearly a very sensitive subject, and so shot Draco a questioning look. The blonde seemed for a moment not to understand, before sudden realization settled in his eyes.

“Of course. A wizard of your type wouldn’t know,” he said, quietly, and Harry frowned.

“My type?” he asked, not sure if he should be offended. Draco sighed.

“I keep forgetting you are Light. You act so much like us.”

“Why would I be Light? And what do you mean, ‘us’?” He could guess, but he wanted to see what Draco’s reasons were. Perhaps the blonde could give him some insight on the subject.

Draco’s expression turned confused, then thoughtful. “The Potters have been mostly Light for generations, so you should be too…unless you’ve been practicing quite a bit of Dark Magic for a while,” he said after a moment. Harry blinked, storing the information away to be considered later; if that was true, it could answer a few of his questions about Magic types. “’Us’ is Dark Wizards, although I suppose given the fact that you are a pureblood it…wait.” He suddenly frowned. “You aren’t a pureblood, either." He shot Harry a somewhat frustrated look. “I keep forgetting. You just behave exactly like one.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to be confused, but a small suspicion was starting to form. “Why wouldn’t I behave like a pureblood, though?”

Draco’s expression unexpectedly twisted into an ugly parody of a smile. “…why,” he said, his voice suddenly rancorous.

Blaise sighed, catching Harry’s attention. “It’s become a somewhat recent fashion for Light wizards to either stop behaving like purebloods or refuse to learn pureblood traditions, especially half-bloods like yourself. I believe it is some sort of twisted statement on ‘equality’. Like they even know what that word means,” he suddenly snarled, his voice flashing with bitterness on the last sentence. Then he seemed to control himself once again as he calmly sipped his pumpkin juice.

Harry stared at him for a moment, shocked. He’d never seen Blaise lose his composure like that, even if only for a moment. Beside him, Draco’s face had gone tight with tension as Blaise spoke, although Harry was glad the frankly frightening smile had stopped.

“We had a chance,” he said angrily, almost noiselessly under his breath. “A chance to explain, to actually be _heard_ , to make honest to Merlin _changes_ to this stupid, biased, corrupt society. We were so close!”

Harry suddenly pulled at Draco’s arm firmly, making the blonde shoot him a startled, questioning look.

“Why don’t we go talk in the Common Room? Much quieter,” he said cheerfully, subtly dragging the blonde away as Blaise stood and hurried to follow. Looking back he caught Snape’s eye and he sent the Professor a short smile as they excited the Great Hall, largely unnoticed.

As they walked down the deserted halls, Harry shot Draco a glare.

“I’m not even sure what you’re talking about, both of you,” he said, switching his scowl onto Blaise for a moment, “but even I know that that is not something to be talking about in the Great Hall!”

“He started it,” Draco said sulkily, even as he looked mildly embarrassed at his slip. Blaise merely looked amused, which honestly put Harry at ease. He wasn’t quite sure how to deal with an angry Blaise.

“While it is nice to finally have confirmed that you are indeed five years old, that is _no excuse_ ,” Harry groused, finally pulling the two into the Common Room. Thankfully it was empty and so they took their respective seats by the fireplace.

“Okay. Now. Tell me what in the seventh layer of hell that was all about,” Harry said. Draco leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

“Dark magic has for a while now been largely discriminated against, especially since the settlement of this particular Ministry. There have been various laws created to repeal the use of various branches of Dark Magic as well as to limit the activities available to Dark Wizards. There are very few ways to learn any of the past Dark Traditions, and many Dark Artifacts have become illegal to possess, buy or sell. The only reason my family is fine is because we’re rich and we’re smart, and the Ministry corrupt and stupid. Why do you think there are so few middle or low class Dark families? They’ve been hunted down, forced to become Light or disappear. Most of this has happened within the last 20 years; the discrimination has been going on for much longer, but only now has the Government gotten quite so…radical about the situation. Now even acting in the traditional _pureblood_ manner is being considered a Dark, and therefore illegal, practice.”

Harry frowned. “I assume no such laws or restrictions have been passed on their Light counterparts?”

Draco laughed, an unpleasant, forced sound. “Why would they do that? Light is _light_. Light is _good_.”

Harry let out a frustrated breath. “That’s no argument. It’s not like I couldn’t break someone’s neck with Leviosa.”

Draco shot him an alarmed look at his sudden viciousness, but Blaise merely laughed.

“Well, that’s why they created the _Mobilicorpus_ spell. It’s basically Leviosa for people, in that it’s impossible to make sudden or unnatural movements with the levitated body. Makes you wonder how many people have died from accidentally having their necks snapped mid-air, doesn’t it?”

Harry let out a surprised chuckle. “Seriously? There, see! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. How is Leviosa better than…I don’t know…Gemino?”

“Gemino?”

“It’s supposedly a curse, but all it does is multiply an object until the spell is canceled. Then all the copies are also destroyed. I mean, how is that even a curse? I’d have to get pretty creative to figure out how to hurt someone with that. It even apparently takes a lot of magic to multiply objects which are too large, so it isn’t like one could make _too_ much of the objects anyways.”

“That is kind of a pathetic curse,” Draco said, looking slightly cheered, “but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t other, worst curses out there. I mean, the Entrails-Expelling Curse is pretty unsalvageable.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Because a well-placed Diffindo couldn’t accomplish the exact same thing?”

Draco looked vaguely nauseous at his suggestion.

Blaise stared at him with new-found wonder. “Wow, Potter. You been thinking about killing someone?”

Harry looked affronted. “No! All I’m saying is I don’t get what differentiates Light and Dark magic.”

“Well, if we’re speaking about genuine magic itself, I think you are thinking about this the wrong way. It’s not about Magic, not really,” Draco said. “It’s about us. Wizards. Light and Dark magic is about how we interact with Magic. Without wizards there is no Dark or Light.”

“To be fair, it’s really about any magical creature,” Blaise interjected. “There are Dark creatures as well as Light creatures, and of course neutral ones.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Draco said. “What I mean to say is, _we_ are Dark or Light. Dark wizards are better at casting Dark spells and Light wizards, Light spells. No one casts pure magic, not really; all spells have already been manipulated one way or the other. Extended use of one branch can also influence one’s proclivity, but that’s about all there is to it. As far as I’ve ever known or heard, there’s nothing behind that. Wizards have been Dark or Light since they had access to magic; I don’t know that there’s much sense to asking why that is, though. On the other hand, ‘curses’ are designated by the Ministry, and don’t ask me how any of _that_ works. Merlin knows how anything gets done in there.”

Harry peered at them both. “That makes sense. I hadn’t quite…thought of it like that.”

Draco scoffed lightly, although he had clearly relaxed. “Of course it makes sense, it’s the truth. And I’m honestly not surprised you haven’t thought of it. The Light side doesn’t like to accept that they are merely a human construct which could change any day. They like to imply they have their reasons, but without proof there’s not much they can really claim.”

“Or, those in power don’t want the public to realize it,” Blaise said, leaning back. “There’s no better way to gain control of a population than to create a common enemy, after all.”

“Evils draw men together,” Harry replied drily. Blaise let out a surprised huff.

“When people are friends, they have no need of justice,” he said. Harry shot him a disbelieving look before grinning.

 “Piety requires us to honor truth above our friends.”

“The greatest virtues are those which are most useful to other persons.”

 “Political society exists for the sake of noble actions, and not of mere companionship.”

“Oh, stop that,” Draco interrupted, irritated, as Blaise opened his mouth to respond. “It’s rude to make inside jokes in a group, especially if the group consists of merely three people!”

“That’s hardly an _inside joke_ ,” Harry murmured, but decided to spare Draco’s pain. “Sorry. But it _was_ relevant.”

“Do I look like I care, Potter?” Draco huffed. “Anyway, do you get it now?”

“Yes, I do. Thanks Draco. You’re awesome,” he said, smiling widely.

“What? Aren’t I awesome too?” Blaise asked jokingly, just as the Common Room door opened and people started pouring in. Harry gave him a considering look before shrugging.

“Eh,” he said, which set off Draco’s laughter and a vaguely hurt look on Blaise’s face which quickly turned into a grin as Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle and Daphne joined their group. Daphne and Pansy looked rather worried as they peered at Draco and Blaise, although they relaxed minutely as they heard the blonde laughing.

“Glad to see you’re all well after leaving so abruptly,” Daphne said carefully, looking around the room subtly. Immediately, Draco tensed and Blaise’s face regained the slightly bored look which Harry was starting to associate with the boy thinking. Beside her, Pansy’s shoulders hunched slightly.

“Excuse us for that. We had an unavoidable…issue,” he said, glancing at Harry, who merely smiled innocently. Daphne huffed delicately before turning to Blaise.

“I…what whispers are you referring to?” she asked, her voice a nervous whisper. Blaise’s expression was unreadable.

“There have been rumors of sightings,” Blaise said after a moment. “Nothing conclusive, of course, but…interesting nonetheless.”

“Do you think…?” Pansy said, pressing the edge of her skirt anxiously. Draco rubbed at his temples.

“Until he calls us, we may never know.”

“Doesn’t it frustrate you?” Daphne suddenly said, her voice rising slightly before Draco’s glare reduced it to a whisper once more.

“Of course it does,” the blonde replied, coldly. Daphne flinched slightly.

“…Perhaps we must seek him out, now,” Blaise said, and Draco considered him carefully.

“Why do you say that?”

“Everyone thought he was dead for most of the past ten years,” Blaise said. “Even now only a few have begun to speculate about the fact he might have survived Potter’s little spectacle.”

Blaise’s statement finally confirmed Harry’s suspicions that they were indeed talking about the Dark Lord, even as suddenly everyone’s eyes turned to him. He could see the sudden realization dawning that he was the renowned defeater of he who Harry could clearly see was basically their Lord and leader, even after nearly a decade of being presumed dead. He realized, suddenly, that he had a deplorable lack of knowledge on the last war, and vowed to remedy that as soon as possible. It was a weakness that, given his friends, was all too easily exploited.

He smiled apologetically, supressing as best he could the latent feeling of dread he could feel rising inside him. “Yeah…sorry about that.”

There was silence from the group for a moment before Draco suddenly burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of his statement. Harry felt with relief the tension dropping as Blaise let out a low chuckle and Pansy huffed in amusement.

“It’s almost a pity you aren’t an honest to Merlin Light wizard,” Draco said, once he’d calmed down. “It would be so much easier to hate you for ruining our lives.”

Even through the blonde’s joking tone, Harry knew there was a grain of truth to his statement, and he felt guilt rip through his chest.

“I’ll fix this,” he said, with sudden seriousness. “I swear on my magic, I’ll do all I can to fix this.”

They were all quiet for a moment before Pansy spoke up, quietly. “It’s not something you can fix that easily, Harry.”

Harry closed his eyes. “You think I don’t know that? I’m not talking about tomorrow, and I’m not talking about what happened ten years ago, not really. I’m talking about everything.” He sighed, knowing that none of them would yet understand what he was talking about. Not yet. “I know there’s only so much I can do, but I have many years yet. And I won’t be alone,” he said, his gaze meeting Draco’s. The blonde’s eyes were cold and calculating, missing the humor from before.

“No, you won’t,” he said slowly, before turning to the rest of the group and saying tonelessly, somewhat tiredly, “How ironic that the Light’s Savior is the first to pledge himself.”

“We’ve been bred since we had the use of reason for our roles, Draco. There’s only so much we can do on our own,” Daphne replied, but she was looking at Harry with new-found respect. Harry nodded at her; it was as good as a truce between them, when their relationship had never been particularly warm. He then turned to all of them.

“I am sorry," he said, somewhat haltingly. "I'm sorry than my salvation meant that your Lord was banished in such a way and that my life was worth the suffering of so many others.” He didn't really know how he felt about the entire situation, but from the way they were all acting, it seemed that quite a few people had died, or worse, as a result of that night, so many years ago. It wasn't his fault, Harry knew, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel sorrow over the fact that it had happened.

Draco looked torn for a moment, before shaking his head. “No. If anything, we should be thanking you.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Blaise leaned forwards, his eyes focused on the wall opposite them where a beautiful painting of the French landscape hung. “In the last years, he was…not the same.”

“Our parents tell us about how he used to be fascinating, brilliant, powerful; about how he could charm the masses into doing anything he wanted with a few well-placed words. How he was set to become the youngest Minister himself before long,” Daphne said.

“His decline was not sudden, but it was noticeable,” Pansy continued fluidly from were Daphne trailed off. “He became more violent, less logical. His anger was unpredictable and immeasurable. He began torturing his followers for the slightest mistakes, and even when there were none.”

“His plans fell through,” Draco said. “Plans he’d spent decades building were tossed aside for raids and violence. He recruited young, immature and vengeful wizards who wanted nothing more than to cause mayhem and destruction. Our parents didn’t know what to do. They had nowhere to go, and no one to trust. By the time they had realized their Lord was gone, they were in far too deep.”

They sat in contemplative silence for a few seconds before Blaise’s low, humorless laugh broke through their thoughts. “I’m sure they were actually quite relieved when they’d first heard of his death. He was falling too far, too fast, and he was taking them all with him.”

“Why?” Harry asked, frowning. Draco shrugged.

“No one knows. Some say the amount of power he had began to drive him crazy. Others say he performed a ritual that went wrong.”

Harry took in their downcast expressions.

“Was it better?”

“Of course it wasn’t better!” Daphne snapped, her hands clenching. “After he was gone, the Ministry descended on us like starved vultures! They took everything they could get their grubby, greedy little hands on, even if it was an ancient family heirloom or priceless inheritance. They took our friends, our family, even those who were innocents, civilians, and either threw them in Azkaban to rot or outright killed them. They have no respect for anything!”

Her statement made something inside Harry harden.  _This_ was exactly what his pledge, his promise was about. Innocents being targeted by fearful, stupid people, who had been given inappropriate power and were wielding it clumsily, destructively, because they could do no better. 

They had magic. They had spells, potions, rituals! Surely they could find out who was innocent and who was not, at least know who deserved to be  _executed,_ for Merlin's sake! He didn't doubt, from what he'd read, that Daphne was speaking the truth in at least a few circumstances, and frankly, given the consequences, even a few was too many.

Hate breeds hate, after all, and if the Ministry thought they could end the war by frightening and threatening the other side into submission, the only thing they were going to do was find out how a corned, desperate predator responds to a threat. And Harry did not think it would be with surrender. There had to be a better way than to simply bleed out the opponent until they were too weak to fight back, Harry refused to believe that that was the only option.

“And what will happen if He comes back?” Harry asked, calculating.

They all seemed to understand the implications of his words. Even Daphne managed to settle her displeasure at the question.

“We can only hope he returns…better,” Draco said, and Harry could hear the undertone of fear in the blonde’s voice. Years of hearing terrifying stories from his parents about their Lord could only instill a sense of dread in him, and Harry pitied the boy; because he knew, and Draco knew, and everyone in the room knew, that when their Lord returned, the Malfoys would go to him. Whether they wanted to or not. And Harry vowed, silently, that when the time came he would help Draco in whatever path he chose.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, until they all decided it was time to retire to sleep. They plodded to their rooms with subdued grace, all of them weary and fearful of the future they could feel was soon – much too soon – to arrive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I am so, so sorry about that delay. That was terrible of me. I've been stressing over the final things I need to take care of to go off to uni and couldn't find inspiration for the story. I have so many wonderful ideas, though! I just need to work them in. Hopefully you all enjoy them as much as I enjoy thinking them up.  
> I hope you like this chapter! It's a bit different from the previous ones, but I promise it is quite important. I had fun writing it!
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely reviews and kudos! They make me so happy, each and every one. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> EDIT: I've made a few edits at the end of the chapter; I felt that the last section was somewhat unclear as to Harry's motivations and thoughts, and therefore read unnaturally. Hopefully the changes have smoothed it out somewhat!


	12. Demonstrare

* * *

_The night air was cold on Harry's skin as he peered curiously through the bars of his cradle at the moon shining brightly through his window. He tried to sit up, managed it after a few tries; he could hear the house settling around him, a quiet stillness which added to the slightly misty sense of the scene._

_There was a strange sound from in front of him, for a moment like a siren wailing, broken, and he couldn't tell when it became a shriek, a crying, breathless scream of words he couldn't understand, yelling he couldn't comprehend, and then the scream turned into laughter -- the most horrid, jarring, high-pitched laughter Harry had ever heard. The screaming and the laughter seemed to have melded into one, a ghastly, unnerving sound which Harry hoped he would never, ever hear again. He couldn't see anymore, couldn't move; the moon's light had suddenly turned red, then a bright, bright green that filled his vision._

_The screaming, terrified laughter never stopped._

* * *

 

Harry shot up from his bed, the last remnants of the dream vivid in his memory. He was breathing heavily, and could feel his skin prickling as his shirt clung to his damp chest. He rose a hand to his face, and realized he was trembling.

He hadn't missed the nightmares. 

He stood up, sighing, glad only that Draco wasn't here to have heard any screams. He wasn't sure if he _had_ screamed, but was glad at least no one would have been there to hear them. He hadn't had to worry about that for a while now; he hadn't had a single nightmare since he'd arrived at Hogwarts, hadn't for a few months before, and could only wonder why he was having one now. He hated thinking about them, especially since he couldn't shake the feeling that it was a memory; now, he could only assume it was a memory of the night his parents died. 

It would make sense, he admitted, in a twisted, cruel way; as a baby his vision and ability to recognize sounds and faces was limited at best. He couldn't actually see anyone else in the room with him, although he was relatively certain there had been two people. Other than that, all he really remembered was the bright green light...and the screaming.

He plodded into the bathroom, peering tiredly at his own face. He could see purpling bags under his eyes, his face looking pale and somewhat sickly. He grimaced slightly at his own appearance, and proceeded to wash up as best he could. 

" _Tempus_ ", he said, and sighed when he realized it was 6:29. He'd fallen asleep around 3...maybe 4. He wasn't sure.

He was tempted to fall back into bed, but decided he might as well get some breakfast. He slowly and clumsily put on his clothes before wandering over to the Great Hall. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, which was mostly just an annoyance to him. He'd felt worst before, and was reasonably certain he knew the limits of his own body, so he assumed he wasn't about to faint in the middle of the Hall. All the same, it was probably a good thing that he was about to get food. He could barely think straight as it was.

He arrived at the Great Hall in a daze, and for a few moments couldn't even remember which table he was supposed to sit at. Finally focusing, he proceeded to walk over to the Slytherin table and help himself to breakfast, not noticing the worried gaze which followed his path. He ate in silence, surrounded by only a few other students which had stayed over during the winter holidays. He didn't know any of them.

He could feel himself nodding off at intervals as he ate, trying to get enough to sustain him for a while and yet feeling slightly nauseous. He hadn't eaten a lot yesterday, and his body was letting him know it really didn't appreciate this. 

As he finally gave up and was wondering whether he should go back to his room to sleep a bit more, he felt a hand land on his shoulder. He blinked, unresponsive for a moment, before turning to see Snape's tall, dark figure behind him. 

They stood in silence for a little moment, Harry not comprehending why his Head of House was there, and Snape looking like he was fighting with himself about something. Finally, the Professor spoke.

"Mr. Potter, if you would follow me."

Harry blinked again, and he could almost see a flash of worry pass over his Professor's eyes. Then he nodded, and stood up to follow him.

The only two other teachers who were already at breakfast, McGonagall and Flitwick, watched them leave with very similar curious expressions.

 

 

* * *

 

"Mr. Potter, how are you feeling?"

Harry was shaken from the daze he'd fallen into as he walked after Snape, peering up at his Professor with a vacantly confused expression.

"Uhm...fine, sir. Why do you ask?"

"You look exhausted, Potter. How much have you been sleeping lately? Eating?"

If this had been taking place a few months ago, Harry might have thought someone was impersonating Snape. As it was, he knew of no one who could imitate the peculiar mixture between kindness and frustration which Snape seemed to constantly wear around him nowadays. It used to be that the frustration overwhelmed the kindness, but eventually, the scales started tipping in the other direction. It probably started with Harry staying after class to talk to Snape; at first the Professor seemed to be merely tolerating him (the first few times he looked like he couldn't understand what on earth Harry was doing there at all), but eventually he would act somewhat expectant, even bringing up material on his own. Harry found, to his great satisfaction, that Snape was nowhere nearly as coarse in private as he appeared in front of his class. Once they'd gotten over their first impressions – and Harry couldn't for the life of him figure out why Snape had disliked him so much at first – they both found out, somewhat surprisingly, they got on reasonably well.

Snape was good at explaining – when he wanted to be, which Harry privately considered was much too rarely during class – and knew quite a lot. Harry certainly could admire the man's extensive knowledge, not only on his own subject, but just about any topic Harry had brought to him until now. They would usually talk about once a week, sometimes to discuss something Harry had read recently which he either didn't really understand or wanted a different view on, what opinions or ideas he'd had about what they'd done during the class, or else any thought which popped into Harry's head during the week.

Harry was attentive and eager to listen, and made sure to ask only questions as necessary; he quickly came to the conclusion that Snape did not have a lot of patience, even when he enjoyed the topic being discussed. Although Snape could talk at length on almost anything, he was quick to decimate queries he thought were redundant or simple; it reminded Harry of Draco, and he wondered if this was where the blond had acquired his sharp, contemptuous wit from. Lucius seemed too diplomatic to have such a cutting tongue.

Even with Snape's acerbic wit, Harry had never felt offended by the other man. Perhaps he could have, for Snape had a sense of humor which was often somewhat cruel, his words sharp and cutting; but Harry had always been good at knowing when he was being made fun of, and Snape never did. He obviously wasn't considered an equal, but he was taken seriously, and that was all Harry could have asked for. 

What it all came down to was that, by now, their relationship had grown beyond that which it had been initially, and Harry was relatively certain that Snape did not have this sort of relationship with any other student, except perhaps for Draco. He'd grown fond of Snape, despite everything, and he was relatively certain his Professor had grown somewhat fond of him.

"Not as much as I probably should," Harry admitted after a while, bringing a hand to his head, which had started to ache slightly. Snape clearly noticed the movement, and frowned at him, clearly demanding an explanation. Harry smiled a little.

"My head just hurts a little."

"Of course it does, you stubborn child," Snape snapped, although it lacked any true harshness. "You can't simply not eat and sleep and expect your body to be alright."

"I don't," Harry replied, feeling himself become slightly annoyed. "I know this is terrible for my body, I'm not doing it because its _fun_." A distant part of him flinched slightly at the snarkiness of his tone, but Snape seemed to also have picked up on the fact that Harry wasn't doing very well at the moment.

"Then why are you doing this?" Snape had slowed his pace down somewhat, which Harry was grateful for. He really couldn't keep up when his Professor went at his own pace.

"I'm reading, mostly. There's just so many interesting books, I feel like I can't waste any time here." It really was true, to an extent; he was doing other things too.

Snape shot him a look which conveyed to Harry that he was both quite unimpressed and yet ever so slightly impressed, another expression which Harry didn't think he'd ever seen anyone wear. 

"And you don't think that your own health is as important as your knowledge?"

"No," Harry responded automatically, although he realized from Snape's vaguely alarmed look that this was probably not the proper response. He couldn't, however, think of a proper way of hedging around it, not as he could feel his headache getting worst and his vision fading around the edges. He suddenly felt a hand come around his shoulder, and he looked upwards to see that Snape's face was contorted with alarm.

"What is it?" he managed to ask. Snape's features blanched, but his arm did not move from around Harry's shoulders, holding him firmly upright.

"You just nearly fell, Mr. Potter."

Harry blinked, noticing they had stopped walking. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to get the world around him to stop spinning. It worked, and after a moment he opened his eyes to see Snape peering at him worriedly. It made something warm grow in his chest; he was still entirely unaccustomed to other people caring about him at all, and seeing his teacher, who for all intents and purposes could have simply ignored him – ignored him when he explained any strange, complicated ideas, turned him away every time Harry came to him with a request which had nothing to do with the class, talked over him when he wanted to state his opinions – _caring_ about his well-being made something inside him glow with warmth. 

"What are you smiling about now, you stupid child?"

"I'm just happy," Harry replied, and he could feel a part of him try desperately to prevent any more words from escaping his mouth, but in that exact moment he couldn't quite understand why he wouldn't say what he was thinking. "I'm just happy someone cares about me." He leaned slightly into the hold Snape had on his shoulder.

For a moment, Snape was completely silent. His expression reminded him oddly of a deer caught in the head-lights, although Harry couldn't imagine why he would look like that. Besides, his vision was starting to swim in front of him, and he once again felt himself being pulled upright.

"Come, Potter. You clearly cannot be trusted to take care of yourself, so that task falls to me now." His voice sounded odd to Harry, somewhat strained. They wandered slowly down the corridors; Harry guessed they were going down to the dungeons mostly from how humid and cold the air started getting around him. He couldn't quite recognize the area around him, and his head was beginning to spin again. Around the time he was about to tell Snape that he had to pause for a moment to breath, Snape suddenly stopped.

"These are my private quarters, Potter," he said, taking out his wand and pressing the tip to the center of the door. "I can Floo you over to the Hospital wing from here."

"No, please." The sense that he did not want to be in the infirmary was sudden and strong, and he could feel bile rising at the thought of using the Floo. He'd used it once before, during his stay in the Leaky Cauldron; it had been unpleasant to say the least, and he thought it would be an even worst idea in his state.

The fact that he did not want to be in the Hospital wing was more difficult to explain, but no less relevant. The infirmary was the one place in the school that Harry could not be in for long; he would start feeling incredibly uncomfortable within minutes. His magic was the main culprit; he could feel it _bristling_ in a way, like a cat that was being rubbed the wrong way, if he stayed in the room for an extended period of time. 

Snape raised an eyebrow at his exclamation. "And why not, Mr. Potter? You are in need of nutrient potions and sleep right now; the Hospital wing is the primary place to get both."

"Please," Harry repeated, turning to look at his Professor pleadingly as his magic began to flutter around him anxiously. "I can't. I can't stand it. It's too _white_."

Through his bleary eyes, he suddenly saw Snape's magic freeze. This realization finally managed to reach a part of his brain which was not entirely affected by his lack of food and sleep -- _he'd just told Snape about the magic, about his ability to see magic._ His eyes widened and he snapped his mouth shut, averting his gaze from his Professor's. Stupid, stupid! 

For a few seconds, Snape did not respond as the door to his quarters finally opened and he ushered them both inside. Harry was placed on an armchair in what Harry could only supposed was the Living Room, although he couldn't quite make it out.

"Do you mean to tell me," Snape said after a few seconds of standing in front of him contemplatively, "that the Hospital wing being 'white' bothers you?"

Harry tried to control his breathing. "I...don't know why. I just...I'm sorry?" He pressed his hands together. 

He couldn't see Snape's expression, but his tone was odd. "Mr. Potter, have you been to hospitals...a lot?"

Harry frowned, uncomprehending of where Snape was going with this. "No? Not very much," he replied, softly. He'd been expecting Snape to demand how he knew the infirmary was white, not...

Oh.

Harry let out a long sigh, closing his eyes firmly as he tried to stifle the throbbing in his head. He couldn't _think_ straight like this. 

Of course Snape hadn't immediately thought he was talking about magic. The Hospital wing _was_ white; white in color.

It was draped entirely with white sheets, white counters, white drapes, white beds. 

Once he'd realized this, he could feel his chest relax from the knots it had tied into. Besides, he didn't even know if Snape could even tell that the Hospital was _white_. For all he knew, he could actually explain what he'd meant – about the magic – and Snape would have no clue. Snape might not actually have realized that the Hospital wing _was_ white. 

In that sense, of course.

He heard footsteps walking around the room for a moment before a flask was suddenly thrust in front of his face.

"Drink this," Snape said. "It's a nutrient broth. I expect you are not capable of eating much right now; this will provide you with all the nutrients your body desperately needs."

Harry nodded, already feeling his throat work as he smelled the potion; he wondered if it was the same one he'd been making over the summer, but expected Snape to be able to brew up a much better version. Even so, he was aware that it would taste terrible, even if he hadn't already smelled it, and so proceeded to plug his nose and chug the potion down. 

It tasted about as terrible as he'd been expecting it to.

Once he was done, making sure to ingest all of the potion regardless of how his throat worked, he handed the vial back to Snape, who proceeded to once again disappear from his muddled line of vision. Almost at once, he could feel an intense drowsiness overcome him, and he turned a suspicious look towards Snape as he took a seat in the armchair in front of Harry's.

"Did you just drug me?" he asked, incredulous. He could almost see a tiny smirk grace his Professor's expression. 

"It's what you need."

"You could have just _told_ me," Harry murmured, annoyed. "I'm about to fall asleep anyways; it was unnecessary."

"While you may think that to be the case," Snape replied, his voice lined with irritation despite the lingering worry, "it is clear that you cannot be trusted to actually _go_ to sleep, despite your body's needs. Do not worry, it is very mild; you will wake up within three hours. I trust that is not too much of your time wasted." The sarcastic tone made it clear it was not actually a question.

Harry would have perhaps made a retort to that comment, but by that time, he was already asleep.

 

* * *

 

_The room was painted in pastel, neutral colors; Harry couldn't tell what they were, but he was sure they were nice and calming. The light from the moon shone on his face, on his walls, on his floor._

_There was something on the floor._

_There was_ _**something on the floor.** _

_The moon was suddenly red, then a bright, bright green._

_The screaming, terrified laughter continued._

 

* * *

 

"...otter. Harry. Harry, wake up!"

Harry awoke at the feeling of someone shaking him firmly, the after-images of his dream still tainting his senses as his magic reacted instinctively to defend him against the perceived threat.

" _Vade retro_!" he screamed breathlessly, and felt his magic lunge out and forcefully push away the person who'd been shaking him, as he immediately proceeded to jump into a crouch at the edge of his bed...his bed?

This wasn't his bed. And, he realized with dawning horror, this wasn't Uncle Vernon or Dudley who he'd woken up with his screaming.

This was Professor Snape, and the man was looking at him warily from where Harry had thrown him against a wall.

They sat in silence for a few moments, as Harry tried to get his heart-beat down to a decent speed and his mind to forget the last vestiges of the dream. He really, _really_ hadn't missed the nightmares.

Although the floor... _decoration_ was a new addition. He shivered.

"Are you awake now, Mr. Potter, or are you going to attack me again?" Snape's tone lacked any emotions Harry could identify, but Harry could see the man's magic snapping around him aggressively. He shrank back into the couch.

"I'm sorry, sir," he managed to say after a few moments as he curled around himself. Would Snape think Harry was dangerous? Would he be expelled? Would he attack him? Harry didn't think so, but he looked so agitated, and Harry _had_ just attacked him..."I'm sorry, I thought--" _you were my cousin_ "--I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, you irritating brat," Snape finally snapped. Harry let out a slow breath, feeling himself relax. Snape wasn't actually angry at him, or else he wouldn't have called him a 'brat'. He tended to do that only when mildly annoyed. 

Even so...

"I really am sorry, though," he said, once more, feeling himself grin slightly at the irritated huff that Snape gave. "I just reacted on instinct."

He regretted his words as Snape's expression suddenly froze, although Harry couldn't tell why.

"Sir?" he ventured.

"How often do you have nightmares?"

Harry's jaw clenched. This. He didn't want to discuss this. Not at all. There was silence for a little while, during which Harry suddenly realized his head didn't hurt anymore and his vision no longer swam in front of his eyes. He wanted to thank the Professor, but before he could get up the nerve Snape broke the silence, sighing.

"Very well. I understand you may not want want to speak of this, but..." His face twisted in what Harry thought might have been sadness, but was gone in an instant, "...my door is open if you ever need to speak to someone about it. Any of the other teachers will be glad to help as well. It may sometimes not look it, Potter, but adults are here help as best we can. We may not always succeed, but we do try."

And if Harry could hear a note of resentment and frustration in his tone, he didn't question it. 

He nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said.

"Now," Snape said, finally coming to where Harry had by now relaxed from his crouching position to sit in the armchair in front of him, "there are three things we must discuss before I let you get on with whatever it is you need to do. The first is your ability to take care of yourself. I will not stand for one of my students fainting in the middle of the hall because they couldn't put aside a few hours to eat and sleep. You _will_ take better care of yourself; the next time I find you like I did this morning, I will not hesitate to inform Madame Pomfrey."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the threat, although part of him was already wondering how to get around his body's necessities. He knew how to prepare a nutrient broth already, so as long as he ate enough to sustain himself he ought to be alright in the long run. He'd have to investigate if there were any spells or potions to lessen the effect of sleeplessness. 

Snape peered at him suspiciously, as if he could tell exactly what Harry was thinking, which honestly wouldn't have surprised Harry all that much; the man seemed like the time of person who also would sometimes forgo sleep and food for some intellectual pursuit, and he ought to know Harry well enough by now. 

"That brings us to item number two; now, do not feel you must answer me this now, but know that, once again, I am only here to help." And if that didn't sound ominous, Harry didn't know what did. "Why does the Hospital wing being white bother you?"

Ah. Harry had hoped Snape would have forgotten about that.

"I...ah... it's not the whiteness itself that bothers me," he hedged, making sure his expression was contrite and somewhat ashamed, as if he had sounded a false alarm. "I'm just not great about so much...cleanliness. I feel like I might break or dirty something. White is just such an easy color to ruin, you know?" A part of him wanted to laugh nervously, but he suspected that Snape was more likely to believe a small sort of lie, the sort which hid within itself because it recognized how silly and absurd it was. Nervous laughter was reserved for when he wanted people to tell he was lying. He didn't actually want Snape to figure it out quite yet. As such, he kept his face open and upset, turning his eyes to his hands, which he forced to fiddle nervously with the edge of his sweater.

From in front of him, he could feel Snape watching him carefully. He rose his eyes slightly and met Snape's gaze, although his entire posture was still bent over and defensive.

_I'm not afraid to meet your eyes. I'm ashamed, yes, but not afraid._

_I'm not lying, just ashamed of the truth._

There was a moment when Harry wondered if Snape was going to push forward; he didn't believe the man had believed his lie, but he was sure that he at least had some doubts. Harry could tell that Snape thought that perhaps Harry had been placed in a hospital often, perhaps from accidents or, more likely, abuse or bullying. He wondered if that sort of thing had happened to Snape himself. He reacted similarly to how Sandy did, whenever she noticed any of his lingering bruises from Dudley's 'fun'. Harry had grown much better at protecting himself as he grew older and gained better control over his magic, but Dudley was as stupid as he was wide; no matter how much Harry showed him he could seriously hurt him at any point, Dudley still seemed to forget every few weeks and attempt to come after Harry again. It left, at worst, bruises from where Dudley had gotten lucky, but it was still enough for Sandy to notice.

Now, Harry had no physical bruises, but bruises to the psyche were just as easy to spot if one knew where to look. 

And, often, the only ones who knew where to look where those who had those same bruises themselves.

There was a small while during which Snape simply observed him quietly and Harry observed him back. Then, Snape nodded, apparently prepared to drop the subject for now.

"Very well, then. Now, for the third issue. What spell was that?"

"What?" Harry frowned. Spell? He hadn't cast any spells. He didn't even have his wand out.

" _Vade Retro_ , you said," Snape replied, his face devoid of any expression. "And your magic reacted to violently push me back. What spell was that?"

Harry blinked, thinking quickly. He vaguely remembered casting the spell, now that Snape mentioned it, although the memory was hazy from his still half-asleep state at the time. He'd cast it with his magic, of course, and in Latin. It wasn't the type of spell they would be taught yet, either, although he'd read about _Flipendo,_ which would have had a similar effect, if less potent _._

He had his wand in his pocket, and Snape didn't appear to have noticed it had been cast without a wand. As for the words...

"I don't really know...I just said it," Harry responded, shrugging, as if he didn't understand why it was strange to Snape. Snape watched him carefully, his eyes narrowed, but Harry didn't know what else to tell him. He was sure it sounded less than convincing, and he himself would have been equally suspicious in his place, but what could Harry tell him? That he'd made the spell up?

He really ought to start doing that, now that he thought about it. 

Snape watched him for a while longer, before seemingly resigning himself to the situation at hand. He looked almost disappointed, and Harry felt for a moment a strong desire to tell him everything, but he grabbed it and pushed it back down forcefully.

Snape only looked like that because he didn't know. He didn't know what Harry was, what he could do, how he was so different. Harry himself still didn't know, and wasn't that laughable? It was his magic, his power. He should have control of it by now. 

It didn't matter to Harry that it was clear that no other kid his age had control over his power. Comparing himself to others had never made sense to Harry; he was his own person, had his own abilities and limits and potential, and trying to feel better about himself because he was – what, different than others? – was, to him, stupid. Who cared if the other kids didn't have control over their magic? Absolutely no one. They weren't expected to, obviously. Harry didn't care. _He_ ought to have control over his magic. _He_ ought to be able to control his powers. Other children simply weren't relevant to him. He wasn't better than them, or worst. He was simply...not them.

And the fact that he didn't have control over his magic yet, didn't even understand it really...

Well.

That was a very personal, very deep source of shame to Harry.

“I really don't know, sir.” Harry sighed, using his shame over his inadequacy to better hide the truth. “I was just...startled. I don't know where I learned that spell. I wasn't thinking.”

Snape gazed at him contemplatively, the disappointment still lingering but now with a trace of something else.

“Have you read, Mr. Potter, anything about psychology?”

Harry blinked. Okay, so that subject wasn't _entirely_ unrelated, but what it could relate to Harry wasn't sure yet. And that made him uneasy. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you read the experiments made on languages and reflexive actions?”

Harry did not like where this was going. Not at all.

“Uhm...some of them...”

“And did you know, Mr. Potter, that in a large percentage of cases, people react to being startled by speaking in the language that they consider their mother tongue?”

Harry could feel the blood draining out of his face. It was a wholly unpleasant feeling.

He wanted to lie. He wanted to claim that that was ridiculous, that those studies were wrong, that _he_ was wrong.

But this was Latin they were talking about. Harry couldn't lie about Latin. He just couldn't.

And he realized he didn't have to lie.

“Yes.”

Snape seemed surprised by his answer, obviously not having expected him to acquiesce so quickly. “And how, Mr. Potter, do you explain having _Latin_ as a mother tongue? I am quite sure your...guardians are not fluent in this language.”

“They aren't,” Harry said, and as a plan formed in his head, he smiled. “But I am. I'm fully fluent in Latin. _Demonstrati possem, autem vos non potest loqueris Latine_ _._ ”

Snape, for just one second, looked like he'd been slapped. Then he managed to recover somewhat. It reminded Harry of the first time he'd left the man gobsmacked, and was sure it wouldn't be the last. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his face a mask of incredulity even as Harry's grin expanded. He'd never had the chance to show off his Latin except with Sandy, and was sure that Snape would appreciate it as much as she had, if perhaps not as openly. As soon as he managed to get his brain working again, that was.

“Merlin, how on earth...are you actually fluent in Latin? What did you just say?” Snape sounded like he was fighting not to believe it, and yet a part of him actually did. Harry appreciated that the man had at least some faith in him; it was more than most adult ever had. 

“I am. I said, 'I could prove it to you, but you don't speak Latin.'.”

Snape snorted, a noise Harry had never heard from him. “Indeed. I...” He rose a hand to his forehead, rubbing circles into the skin. “I would like some more proof of this ability of yours before I can believe you; you understand, I'm sure.”

Harry did. “Do you have any book written in Latin I could translate for you? Some book you've read a translation of yourself, of course, so that you know I'm not just making stuff up.”

Snape nodded, and stood up to rummage through his bookcase as Harry sat back in the couch, letting out a long breath. He could distract Snape for now with his Latin and, if needed, convince the man that that was why he was so nervous. It wasn't a common ability, Harry knew for certain by now, and so knew that Snape would, knowing to some extent Harry's need for privacy, accept his reluctance to share.

Snape came back with a book and handed it to Harry, who immediately proceeded to open the book and begin reading.

For the next few minutes, Harry proceeded to translate the first chapter of _De Aquis_ to the best of his ability; it wasn't that he didn't understand what he was reading, of course, but rather that, as Harry had often found, translations were _hard_. He often had to stop to think of what word would properly express a certain concept in Latin, and sometimes had to use entire sentences when there was no direct alternative. The book was quite interesting, though, and so Harry had no trouble doing to his best; as he continued, it became clearer and clearer that Snape really did believe him. Eventually, Snape raised a hand, signaling Harry to stop. 

“Alright. That was quite impressive,” Snape said, and Harry grinned, proud. “Would you mind telling me how you came to learn Latin?”

“I learned largely by myself,” Harry replied, already preparing for Snape's scoff of incredulity; but, to his surprise, it never came. Snape seemed to pick up on his confusion.

“I know you well enough by now, Potter. I'm well aware of your...learning capabilities.” His tone held a note of respect in it, and Harry felt torn between feeling proud at the praise and like he didn't deserve it. “While I would be reluctant to accept this of anyone else, it is clear to me that you are not...average. Even so, it is a remarkable feat, and you surely could not have done it entirely by yourself; someone had to have introduced you to the language in the beginning.”

“Yes,” Harry replied, glad to have the chance to give Sandy the credit she deserved. He certainly couldn't have managed without her and her library. “I had a friend; she's a librarian, and she was the one who gave me all the books I needed to learn Latin. She also helped with any problems I had, and I am very thankful to her. She's wonderful.”

A flash of sadness flashed through Snape's face, although Harry wasn't sure what had caused it. His story wasn't a sad one, after all.

“I'm glad you had someone like that in your life, Potter. Since...” he sighed, looking suddenly tired. “...your relatives clearly weren't...what a boy like you needed.”

Harry swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “I...they were okay.” No, they weren't, but Harry wasn't quite at the point were he would admit that sort of thing openly yet. It wasn't worth it. “But I'm also very glad she was there.”

Snape nodded, and they sat in silence for a few more seconds. Harry hoped the subject might have been dropped then but – 

“And you don't have any idea of how you may have cast that spell?”

Harry's mouth opened, and then closed once again on his instinctive, misleading response – panic often caused wandless magic among children, and would be a valid enough excuse that Harry knew that Snape would buy it.

But he couldn't do it.

It felt wrong to lie after he'd shared so much with Snape, even more after today. He respected his Professor, liked him even, and Harry knew he was not the type that would ever laugh at Harry's...inadequacy. He wanted to trust him. 

He wanted to trust somebody. He was so tired of hiding.

“I...sir. Can we...can we possibly discuss this at a later time?”

Snape's face was unreadable, and Harry looked at him pleadingly. He didn't want to lie, but he couldn't quite tell him the truth just yet. He had no practice with the truth; Sandy had been there from the start, and even she had never quite known the entirety of Harry's abilities. Draco only knew about the wand, and the Dursleys only had the vaguest idea of his powers – mostly that they could be used offensively. 

Literally no one, apart from Harry himself, knew all of the truth. And if Snape pushed, Harry wondered what he might say.

Finally, thankfully, Snape nodded. “Very well, Potter. You may go.”

Harry nodded, grateful. As he was leaving, he heard Snape call his name.

“And Potter, do take better care of yourself. I wouldn't want all the paperwork that would come with you fainting in the middle of class.”

It was as close as Snape ever came to stating he cared about anyone's well-being, and Harry, who had come to know the man relatively well over the past few months, could see that. So he merely smiled, thanked him and promised he would, as he traipsed back to his room to continue reading. He'd get something to eat later.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm not dead! And neither is the story!
> 
> It's been really long since I last published something, and I'm so sorry about that. College had been wonderful so far (but exhausting), and it has only been during the past few weeks that I've been able to finally get into writing for leisure once again. Hopefully I'll be able to get out a new chapter more often now! I might at some point put up some art for the story (I'm still trying to get up the courage for it, so we'll see!) if I ever think it's good enough. Maybe :)
> 
> I hope you like this chapter; it's mostly about the relationship between Snape and Harry, which I intend to play an important role in the story. Hopefully Snape is not too out of character; I've always disliked how horribly he treated Harry in the books, disliking him for his father (even if James was terrible), and so wanted to give him my own, hopefully not too drastic spin. So, as always, this is meant to be another Snape; he won't be like in the books, at least not entirely. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments and kudos! You are all so incredible and wonderful and lovely and everything an author could hope for. I love each and every one of you. Thank you so very much! As always, all comments and corrections are always welcome!
> 
> I hope you all keep enjoying the story!


	13. Donum

Harry awoke on the 25th of December to a misty, snowy landscape and a vague sense that he was forgetting something. It took him a few minutes to realize the date and the significance, but even then all it did was make him sigh.

Harry was not particularly excited about Christmas; not because he didn't like it, but because...

Well. He supposed he did dislike Christmas a little.

The fact of the matter was, ever since he was little, all Christmas had ever signified to him was that Dudley had a family and parents that loved him, and Harry didn't. He'd only ever gotten presents from Sandy; small things, books, trinkets, which Harry nonetheless treasured because he had nothing else.

Now, he wouldn't even have that.

So it was with some resignation that he got up that day, sighing as he wondered fleetingly if Draco and Blaise and the others were having fun with their families. He'd received a few letters from them over the past few days, since they'd left for the holidays. Draco wrote the most, followed by Blaise. Harry hadn't actually expected the dark-haired boy to write to him, but although their correspondence was somewhat stunted, it existed, which Harry had to admit was nice. He'd never before had anyone to correspond with.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that he saw the pile of presents at the foot of his bed.

He stood there, shocked for a few seconds before he managed to finally gather his bearings. He leaned down and peered, amazed, at the box on the top of the pile.

It was a large present, wrapped with beautiful bronze paper and tied with a golden bow which shone with a satiny appearance. He looked at the card then, still halfway in disbelief at what he was seeing.

_Dear Harry,_

_Merry Christmas! We hope you enjoy this present._

_Lucius, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy_

Harry had to swallow sharply at the sudden dryness of his throat.

“Merlin, now I feel bad,” he murmured after a little while. “It's rude to get me something when I didn't get _you_ anything.”

He placed the present gently next to him on the bed, before bending down to pick up the next box. It wasn't as large as the other one, and had no bow; the wrapping paper was, however, also very clearly high quality, a burnt sort of green which nonetheless appealed to Harry in its simplicity. He turned the card on the top, grimacing slightly as he read the inscription, his cheeks turning steadily pink.

_To my dearest Harry,_

_Merry Christmas, sweetheart. May this day be as lovely as you are._

_Always yours,_

_Blaise Zabini_

He scowled. Part of him wanted to throw the present out the window, but the fact of the matter was, it was probably a gift Harry would like. It would be undoubtedly thoughtful; this was _Blaise_ , after all. He might enjoy getting under Harry's skin, but he was nothing if not observant. While this annoyed Harry at times, it also meant the dark-haired boy knew what people liked and wanted. Harry wondered if this had to do with his mother and her...reputation. It wouldn't surprise Harry if Blaise had picked up some things from her. Besides, it might be considered just a bit rude to simply throw away the present without even opening it.

Harry felt he would be completely justified in doing it, but it would be rude. He absolutely did _not_ feel bad about not having sent the boy a present.

He sighed, amused resignation coloring his expression as he placed the gift beside Draco's. The next gift was a box of chocolates wrapped in a bow, which Harry peered at curiously for a moment before reading the note attached. They were from Pansy, which surprised Harry somewhat, as he and the girl didn't really talk that much. He would consider her his friend to some extent, but the gift surprised him.

The next box had no note attacked, and Harry frowned suspiciously at it before placing it beside the other presents. Perhaps it would be inside?

The last present was not in a box, but was instead soft. It shone with a very strange, distinctive magical aura; most magic looked somewhat dull to Harry, like fog, but this shone like liquid silver, shifting like water in a moonlit pond. He picked it up carefully, curious but wary, and as he raised the parcel the wrapping paper slipped off it and fell to the ground. Harry had only a few seconds to think that whoever had wrapped this was really bad at wrapping, before he found his jaw dropping.

His hand, the one covered by the cloth he was holding, had become invisible.

He stared at the cloth in his hand, incapable of making a sound, for a few more minutes before raising the material to his face. It appeared see-through, in a way, but when he turned it around he could see his hand blocking the usual path his sight would have taken. With the cloth on top, his hand was once again gone.

He hesitated for a second before pulling the cloth around his shoulders, gasping as he looked downward and seeing nothing where the rest of his body should have been.

He began to twirl around a little, watching parts of him disappear and reappear from beneath the cloak. After a few minutes he began to feel a little dizzy so he sat back down on his bed, placing the cloth beside the other presents. Looking down he noticed a small note had come along with the cloak, and he picked it up gingerly.

_Your father left this is my possession before he died. It is time it is returned to you. Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you._

There was no signature.

And wasn't that suspicious?

For the moment, however, neither the fact that this had belonged to his father not the mysterious sender of the cloth mattered to Harry half as much as the cloth itself. His mind was already working at trying to figure out how on earth such a thing worked.

Sure, he could make something look transparent, but how to make it actually be transparent and, more importantly, how to make it make _other_ things invisible? This cloth's value lay not in _it_ being invisible – although that alone was pretty impressive – but rather in it making whatever was inside it invisible. Harry's _Transpicio_ worked by allowing photons to pass through the material Harry wanted without becoming disrupted by the matter there; in other words, what Harry's magic was doing was allowing the photons which would go through Harry's eyes to pass undisturbed through the 'invisible' object. The material wasn't _actually_ made invisible, it simply looked like it had to Harry.

But there was no reason that that had to be so. Harry _could_ make a material invisible, but that would require constantly feeding the material magic so that the photons remained undisturbed; Harry had no idea how to actually turn the material into something which wouldn't disturb light – which he supposed meant he didn't actually know how to make material invisible after all. Well, he could change it to glass, but that wasn't what he actually wanted. He wanted the material to stay the same, not...

Wait. What material was this cloth? He pressed the material through his fingers trying to think back on what cloths he'd felt before. He knew it wasn't cotton or polyester, nor was it leather, silk, satin or nylon, but after a little while had to admit to being completely lost. It felt like water woven into material, and Harry doubted it was any fabric he could have encountered in the Muggle world. Besides, the cloth was positively radiating magic.

Maybe that was it? Maybe this material's properties were to allow light to pass through it without...but then again, it still had to make the things behind it invisible. Harry supposed at least that much had to be attributable to spells, even if the cloth itself was invisible. Perhaps it somehow transmitted its properties to whatever was inside it? Fueled by the user's magic? It didn't have to make other things transparent, after all; simply imitating its own properties was not such a hard task, even if it wasn't being consciously directed. Harry didn't know exactly what kind of spell that would be, or what words he could use to do it, but the theory sounded reasonable.

“Let's try it out,” he murmured, reaching down to his bedsheets, then changing his mind. If he ruined his sheets because his experiment had gone wrong, he didn't know if he'd be able to replace them. He frowned. There _must_ be a way to replace them; in a magical school such as Hogwarts, there had to have been countless occasion in which not only bedsheets, but probably entire rooms were destroyed beyond repair.

He shook his head to prevent himself from going further with that train of thought. He was trying to figure out the cloth, not Hogwarts' cleaning system. Not for now, at least. He'd certainly think more on that later.

Eventually, he picked up a piece of parchment. There was no reason it wouldn't work as well as a piece of cloth; for his purposes, it was nearly identical, since he had no idea what the cloak was made out of. He brought the parchment over next to the invisible cloth and began to examine their differences and carefully cataloging all he could find.

Parchment, he knew, was made from either calfskin, sheepskin or goatskin, which was then stretched out thinly and dried.

_Pellis,_ essentially _,_ although Harry didn't feel that that was the precise word for it. It was as close as he thought he could get. _Corium_ , perhaps? It didn't really matter, but sometimes trying to identify the object in Latin helped Harry figure out other objects. Such as the invisibility cloak, for which the only words he thought made any sense were _tunica de aquai_ , even though there was no way that was actually true...well. It could be true, he supposed. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more it became obvious that there was no reason it _couldn't_ be true.

Sometimes magic really was a pain. Nature was very nice, very organized, very clear about what was and what wasn't and what could be done and what couldn't. Then magic came and messed it all up.

Harry let out an amused huff. Here he was, complaining about _magic._ Oh, what a terrible, dull life he led!

He turned to the parchment once again; he was very hesitant about trying to turn it into an _tunica de aquai_ , largely because he was relatively certain it would simply turn into liquid, which would be annoying. After all, his magic could only work as far as Harry understood what he was doing, and in this particular case he had no idea what he was doing. Still, his curiosity was nagging at him. Finally, he ripped off a small section of the parchment.

“ _Fies tunica de aquai.”_

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the parchment began to drip. Within moments it had become a puddle at Harry's feet.

“ _Vae_ _merda,”_ he muttered, honestly more amused than anything. He had expected this, after all.

Having no more ideas at the moment on how to deal with the cloak, he placed it beside him. He wondered it Snape might know anything about it; he'd look in the library first for any mention of the strange cloth, but Snape might also have some idea as to who had sent him the cloth. It really was bothering Harry not knowing.

He then turned to the other presents. He picked up Draco's first and began to carefully peel off the paper.

His smile grew as he finally uncovered his gift.

Two books, and a very beautifully embroidered mokeskin pouch. Harry had commented to Draco once that they sounded very useful, and he grinned at knowing that the blond had actually remembered his little throwaway comment.

The two books were wrapped individually, and Harry noted that they had a note on top of them.

_Do not open these with other people around. They might not be appreciated._

Harry's eyes widened, and he looked a the books curiously. He was alone in his room, of course, so he proceeded to open the first one carefully. Once he could finally read the title he understood Draco's precautions, and his lips quirked in a grin.

_Blood Wands: What they are, how they work and why you have one_

Harry was sure this was at least in part a bit of a comment on the huge amount of trouble Harry had been having with his wand, which Draco had seen quite a bit of. He supposed it also stemmed from Lucius and Narcissa's concern; he was somewhat surprised that they'd cared enough to send a present at all, let alone be so thoughtful with it. Harry appreciated useful gifts above all, and this book was very useful. It was also likely rather rare – and quite possibly borderline illegal. Blood magic was frowned upon by most people, and finding any books on the subject was very hard. Harry had found no books on the subject in the Hogwarts library at all, and any books which mentioned it in passing did so in a rather negative fashion, as if the subject was distasteful.

The second book was called _A Beginner's Guide to the Dark Arts_ , and a quick browse through it revealed it was exactly what it looked like; a beginner's guide to learning dark spells and rituals. Harry had complained a few times to Draco that the library contained very few books on Dark Magic, and that finding any spells which could possibly be considered Dark was almost impossible. The blond had looked amused, and asked if he expected the school to teach its students spells which were considered illegal. Then he'd commented his _own_ library had many books on Dark Magic. He'd thought the blond was simply bragging at the moment, but now it appeared he'd been offering. And wasn't that nice of him? He noted with amusement that the blond's gifts largely stemmed from Harry's complaints; he'd have to make sure to complain to the blond more often, given this as the result.

He then reached for Blaise's present, sighing as he caught sight of the note again. Peeling the paper off, he became very glad he really hadn't thrown the gift away.

_Spells and Runes: Recognizing, Modifying and Creating Spells_

He felt his jaw drop for the second time that day.

How on earth did Blaise know about this? He didn't know whether to be angry at the boy for his nosiness or grateful that he'd actually gotten him this book. Harry had made no headway on finding this information, and having it dropped in his lap like this was more that he could have hoped for.

He decided he might as well be grateful, and forgave Blaise his uncouth note. It felt awfully like being bribed, and after a moment Harry decided he was not above such a thing. This was useful, and he'd be damned if any sense of decency held him back from things that were useful.

Finally, he turned to the last box. He opened it carefully, but given that he could sense no magical aura around it he wasn't too worried over what could be inside. As he finally took out the gift, his eyes widened.

_Brevis Historia De Magia_

He turned the book around, looking for a note, and instead found a picture.

He swallowed.

It was a picture of his mother, younger than he'd ever seen, and she was sitting next to a lake in what appeared to be a large meadow. She was smiling at him, her expression joyous and carefree.

He turned the picture around, hoping there might be some inscription behind it. It would be cruel to not give any explanation for this, in his opinion. Attached to the back, with a temporal spell which released the paper as soon as he touched it, Harry found a small note.

_Dear Harry,_

_I apologize for not telling you this sooner, but I must admit I was somewhat reluctant even telling you this now. Your mother and I were friends when we were younger; we were in the same year but, unfortunately, due to my own stupidity, we had a falling out during our Hogwarts days. This is one of the few pictures I still have of her, taken from near our homes when we were children, and I felt that you should have it. She was a dear friend to me, and if you wish, you may ask me about her._

_I hope you enjoy this book. I forbid you from reading it to such an extent that it puts your health at risk. As I explained, I will not have you fainting while under my supervision. Consider it my present that you will endeavor to take better care of your health, at least during the Holidays._

_Merry Christmas_

Again, there was no signature, but this time Harry had no doubts as to who had sent him this gift. He tried to swallow down the lump that had grown in his throat as he read the note.

“Stupid bat,” he murmured fondly, his voice choked slightly. He didn't know why this was affecting him so much...that was a lie, he knew exactly why this was affecting him so much. He didn't really want to admit it, not even to himself, but he was starting to see Snape as some sort of... father figure. It was ridiculous, really. He'd only known the man for a few months! He was Harry's teacher and caretaker for most of the year, and so was _paid_ to take care of him; for all Harry knew, the man actually didn't like him at all and was simply putting up with him. Perhaps he was like this to all his students, and Harry was simply being egocentric.

Even as he thought this, he knew it wasn't true. Even Draco was somewhat surprised with how much Snape and Harry got along, and the blond didn't even know the half of it. The present was a surprise, and Harry might have even wondered if it was entirely too weird for a teacher to be sending his student a present, but he supposed their relationship wasn't normal anyways, what with the fact that he'd apparently known Harry's mother since they were children.

It was also true that Snape was the closest thing he'd ever known to any sort of legitimate parent. The Dursleys obviously had never even been considered, and the main problem with Sandy fulfilling that role was that Harry had always felt she was not exactly parent-material, however much affection he had for her. He'd never been able to fully discuss his ideas with her, to ask her anything, to argue anything, and he'd never been tempted to show her all he could do. Not like with Snape, who was slowly but surely tearing apart all his walls with his curious, ridiculous expressions, acerbic wit and small, frustratingly affecting acts of kindness. Despite all that, he didn't know that he'd ever tell Snape any of this. He was sure the taciturn, impatient, blunt man would have a heart-attack if he ever heard Harry thought...

“Oh, Merlin,” he sighed, glad that there was no one around to witness his tiny emotional melt-down.

He placed the book next to him in the bed next to Blaise's presents, determined not to think on the subject for now, and allowed himself to lay back in the bed as he held his mother's picture above his face. He didn't know how he felt about his biological parents, honestly. He regretted he'd never known them, but he didn't quite miss them. Pictures like this mostly simply made him sad that people who looked so happy had had to die, but it wasn't really anything deeper than that.

He was also curious as to why Snape had not mentioned his father at all, and a nagging suspicion was beginning to form in his mind.

Snape would have to also have known his father, as they would have been in the same year; however, the fact that he'd not mentioned him at all hinted at the fact that they hadn't really gotten along while in school. It might also explain Snape's initial reservations towards Harry; if they'd been school rivals, then he might have had an instinctive reaction to seeing someone who even Harry himself would admit looked so much like James Potter.

Maybe they'd fought over his mother?

The idea made him frown. It seemed like too... _shallow_ a reason, but he accepted that it made some sense. Harry himself had never really understood fights over lovers, but he knew that they could be considered Serious Business to others. Even so, the idea that Snape had put that much importance on who he wanted to date seemed too trivial for the man. But maybe Harry was just being judgmental. If they'd been friends since they were kids, and then she'd stopped talking to him because she was seeing someone else, he could see how that would be hurtful. Still, Snape didn't sound like she'd scorned him; rather, he'd specified _he'd_ been the one to do something to offend her.

Harry sighed. He supposed he'd have to ask, if he ever wanted to know.

The rest of the day was spent perusing his new gifts, only emerging from his quarters to attend the Christmas feast at the behest of Snape's note. He sent the man a smile as he sat down at the table in the Great Hall, noting how Snape's expression flattened as he nodded in his direction before turning away. Harry got the distinct impression that the man was somewhat embarrassed, and he couldn't stop smiling for the next 10 minutes.

Harry considered it his first true Christmas, and he wouldn't have changed a thing.

Well, maybe that Blaise had been there so that he could have thrown something at his smug face.

As a thank you for the gift, of course. Never let it be said that Harry wasn't thoughtful, too.

 

* * *

 

Harry awoke early on the first day of class. Everyone had arrived the day before, and Harry had taken the time to thank each individual for their presents, as well as to apologize profusely for his lack of foresight into taking their presents into account.

He'd decided, after a while of trying to figure out how on earth he was going to justify not getting them any presents when it clearly was a well accepted custom, to go with the cleanest and easiest excuse; that he'd never celebrated Christmas.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell them about the Dursleys; he simply explained that his guardians didn't believe in Christmas as a time to give gifts, but rather as a time to spend with the family and come together to celebrate the Yule season. He hoped they wouldn't ask too much about it; he knew it was considered rude by some to inquire too deeply into others' religious beliefs and customs and, while Harry himself wouldn't have considered it particularly intrusive had it been any other topic, in this particular case he was comfortable not letting others know too much about his home-customs. He really, really didn't want to explain to anyone that the best Christmas gift he'd ever gotten was the Latin-English Dictionary Sandy had given him a year into his Latin lessons; that would raise various questions about both Latin and Sandy – who was conspicuously not his guardian – which Harry was not particularly eager to answer.

It wasn't that the book itself had been a bad present; rather the opposite, and he was thankful every day for it, and for Sandy's acceptance of his determination and love of the language. He simply knew that other children – children like Draco, who could have practically anything in the world which could be bought, and quite a few things that couldn't – would not understand why a _dictionary_ would possibly be considered Harry Potter's best Christmas present.

The only problem with his explanation had been what he was doing in the castle for the holidays. Why hadn't he gone home for the Christmas season?

Harry had eventually decided to use a bit of the truth and a bit of a lie.

“My guardians and I...we have a complicated relationship,” he answered Daphne's somewhat blunt question about why he hadn't gone home for the holidays. “I'm sure they would not have been upset to have me there, but I thought they might appreciate my giving them the holidays for themselves.”

Daphne had looked somewhat ashamed at her question then, which Harry couldn't figure out until he later was confronted – much less bluntly – by Pansy on the matter.

“Are your guardians trea...” She stopped herself suddenly, blushing. “I'm sorry. I'm being rude.”

“No, don't worry about it. It's nothing like that. We get along, we just don't...we aren't true family,” Harry had hurried to reassure her, as the pieces clicked in his head. He'd known some purebloods were rather prone to...harsh punishments with their children, but he hadn't really applied it to the fact that many of his classmates were purebloods. “Christmas was a fine time, but I did get the impression that they sometimes wished they could have some time to themselves.”

“My parents are like that too, sometimes.” Daphne's interjection was not one Harry had expected. Not because he expected her parents to love her, necessarily – he'd read enough to know that it was exceedingly rarely in any way the child's fault when their parents were neglectful – but rather that she was making the admission at all. She was one of the most private people in the group, and he'd rather gotten the impression from her that she didn't really like him. Now, as she peered at her nails in a fashion which Harry could only attribute to some shame, he realized he might just have misunderstood her. “I think they sometimes want to be alone – not because they don't love us, of course,” he quickly added at the others' look of dawning pity, “but they got married very young.”

“And they had to take care of their duties,” Harry murmured. She nodded, looking at him sideways, and Harry realized that she was, in her own way, apologizing for bringing up the subject with him earlier. She clearly thought he might have felt that she'd been aggressive or intrusive, which Harry could understand although he hadn't actually felt that way. She didn't want to make an enemy out of him; by revealing a bit of her personal life, a bit which might be construed into leverage if so needed, she was leveling the playing field between them. An apology, in a very careful, purposefully determined way.

Harry didn't quite know what to do with that, so he simply nodded slightly at her. Her expression shifted minutely and she turned away from the group, shifting over to another group of Slytherins. Harry caught Draco's eye as the blond assessed him carefully. The blond looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and changed the subject. Harry really appreciated his often less-than-subtle approach to diplomacy; covert inter-house politics, like the ones Daphne was more adroit at, set him somewhat on edge. Draco, while discreet when he wanted to be, knew that there usually was no need for him to be so. He wielded enough power from his family name that he never needed to be particularly underhanded to achieve what he wanted; besides, even if he had been attempting to hide his true intentions, everyone would already have assumed he was planning something, simply because he was a Malfoy. As long as he did it openly, no one asked any more questions.

Harry had realized this was actually Draco's preferred strategy when being overt was not the best method – he was good at making people think he was planning one thing, when he was in fact conducting another scheme in the background. People tended to underestimate him, because of his father; not because Lucius was bad at politics – rather the opposite, in fact. Harry had read up a bit on a few of the most powerful families in Britain at the moment, which of course included the Malfoys and, if nothing else, Lucius was a genius at getting what he wanted.

It wasn't outwardly mentioned anywhere, of course, but if one knew where to look, it was clear that he had over half the Ministry under his thumb, as well as the Board of Governors and quite a few of the law officials. He had enemies, of course, but none that Harry saw had ever been able to truly damage his reputation. Rather, Lucius excelled at destroying the opposition; Harry wondered if that was the secret to his success. Most people hesitated somewhat at the prospect of utterly destroying someone else's life; Lucius only hit harder.

It was even difficult to find any records of the people who'd attempted to go against the Malfoy patriarch; mostly old newspapers, some articles, but nothing after their initial attack. When Lucius won, he won _very_ thoroughly.

Harry had to admit he admired that.

What it meant for Draco, then, was that most people assumed he relied on his father's abilities for manipulation rather than any of his own. For a reason which Harry couldn't quite fathom, he knew a lot of people considered Draco to be...well, not _stupid_ , exactly, but also not particularly smart. And while Harry could understand why someone might assume that – he knew quite a few children, mostly in other Houses, who had no abilities of their own when it came to social relations and instead relied entirely on their family names – it was dangerous to assume of Draco. To be fair, he suspected the blond played it up somewhat around other people; he would often mention his father more than Harry would deem necessary or reasonable, and often modeled his behavior and logic to appear to have been entirely directed by his father.

Harry had no idea how Draco could stand being considered incompetent, but then again there were many things the boy did which Harry didn't understand.

Breakfast was a quiet affair until Draco suddenly motioned for the rest of the group to pay attention to him.

“We're going to get a new Defense teacher,” he announced, smug as everyone else reacted with surprise at the unexpected news.

“I liked Snape as our teacher,” Harry murmured, although he knew why he wouldn't be teaching anymore. All last term Snape had been covering both subjects, and by the end of the year he'd started looking rather haggard and tired. Harry couldn't expect him to continue on with that, however much he enjoyed classes with him. He certainly expected a lot from his students, but thankfully hadn't resorted quite yet to asking them to cast spells in class. Harry was getting to the point where he could cast a believable and reasonably stable _Petrificus_ _Totalus_ _,_ and his _Flipendo_ could throw an object a good 10 feet without also causing it to explode. Much. He counted that as a success.

“I did too, but we all know he was being severely over-worked last term,” Draco said, carefully poking at the piece of apple on his plate. “And we can always go to him for extra help if the new teacher turns out to be as incompetent as Quirrell.”

“I'm not sure that's possible,” Blaise quipped, yawning widely, as he suddenly appeared behind Harry. “Morning, everyone.”

“Morning, Blaise,” Harry said, turning curiously to the other boy. Blaise looked like he hadn't slept much, and although it was nothing compared to how Harry had looked when Snape had found him, the dark circles under his eyes were pretty distinctive. That did not stop a group of 2nd year Slytherins from giving him dreamy looks as he took a seat next to Harry. “How was your night?”

“I stayed up late reading a bit,” Blaise responded, shooting Harry a sleepy, teasing grin. “Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.”

Harry sighed, feeling it was too early to gripe to the other boy and so deciding to ignore his ribbing. “What were you reading?”

“Your book,” Blaise replied lazily. “The one you carry around everywhere.”

Harry blinked. He knew it was a lie, not only because Blaise would never take anything of his, despite how much he teased him about it, but because he wasn't sure which book Blaise was talking about. He read a lot, but he almost never took any books around with him, much less 'everywhere'.

And Blaise had to know this – because that was just the kind of person he was – which meant he was saying something else.

It really was too early for all of this.

“Of course, that book,” he replied vaguely, which was obviously not the response Blaise wanted because he was peering at Harry through slitted eyes. They sat in silence for a few moments, Blaise's expression inscrutable, before he finally moved backwards, stretching his back.

“You, dummy,” he finally said, sounding somewhat disappointed that Harry hadn't caught on. “The 'book' you carry around everywhere, where all your knowledge is.”

Harry frowned. “You were reading my mind?” he asked, somewhat confused. He was pretty sure that was not quite what Blaise had meant, but he was not _entirely_ sure and that made him nervous.

Blaise snorted. “ _No_ ,” he drawled, sounding half amused and half indignant. “That would be _rude_. Despite how interesting I'm sure your mind is.”

Harry rubbed at his head. “You were thinking about me?” he finally said, after a moment of trying to come up with a reasonable interpretation of Blaise's words. The other boy's smile widened.

“Good,” he said, patting Harry in the head as he swatted him away. “You'll be good at this yet.”

“Understanding your stupid, cryptic, entirely useless comments?” Harry asked grouchily. “What would be the point of that? Eternal boredom?”

“Oh, but _Harry_ , there is too a point to them,” Blaise replied, his tone honeyed as he leaned forwards. “You just don't see it yet.”

“He's training you to be a politician,” Draco suddenly interjected from Harry's other side, to Blaise's complaints that he'd spoiled the fun. “You're not going to succeed, Zabini. Harry absolutely refuses to play that game.”

“He's got potential,” Blaise all but purred as Harry pushed at his shoulder. “I've barely been doing this for a few weeks and he's already decent.”

“I'm not a dog to be _trained_ ,” Harry snapped, feeling very much like he was being made fun of. “And both of you can stop this already. I'm _not_ going to be a politician.”

“See what I mean?” Draco said, sighing.

“You just don't have the necessary determination.”

“And you do?”

“More than you, certainly.”

“Then I wish you all the luck; if you ever manage to succeed, I will be most impressed.” It was clear from the blond's expression he did not expect such a thing to occur. Blaise shot him a sly grin.

“What will you give me if I succeed?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I will give you nothing. You are doing this for your own gain; I've nothing to do with it.”

“But you do want me to succeed,” Blaise prodded, “as it would benefit you as well.”

Draco shrugged. “I don't need it that much. I think it would benefit Harry, if nothing else.”

Harry, meanwhile, was becoming annoyed at how they seemed to be talking as if he was not there. Or as if he didn't understand what they were going on about. He really hoped it was the former.

“ _Harry_ would be rather pleased if both of you considered he was listening in to all of this and might actually have some faculty of his own,” he interrupted with a deceptively sweet voice, although he was glaring at them. Blaise laughed.

“Forgive me, dear, I didn't meant to imply such a thing,” he said, his tone mellow and apologetic. Harry wasn't fooled, and he felt his annoyance flare.

“What _did_ you mean to imply, then?” His voice had turned soft and sweet, but his eyes told a different story. Blaise actually hesitated for a moment before replying.

“I apologize if—”

“Blaise.” Harry's tone was quiet, his teeth just slightly too visible and his smile just slightly too wide. “What did you meant to imply?”

Blaise blinked at him for a few moments, his eyes losing their previous lightness and his posture shifting slightly, inwardly. Even more tellingly, his magic suddenly went very, very still.

“I feel that you are wasting a natural talent,” he finally answered. “And I don't like to see that. I never meant to imply that you are in any way lacking...capabilities, for I am well aware you are not. If my opinion has not been made clear in the past, then let me do so now.”

Harry did not respond for a moment longer, trying to ascertain if Blaise's apology was genuine. The dark-haired boy's posture was what eventually convinced him; it was too hunched over, too defensive to be anything but authentic. Blaise was not a submissive person by most people's standards, and he would not react this way if he was not in some way truly sorry.

Or if he had something to gain from it, but Harry couldn't imagine what Blaise might gain from this situation. He had annoyed Harry in the past and hadn't particularly cared – although that wasn't quite true, Harry amended. He was always careful not to actually hurt Harry, although he might be irked. Still, Harry didn't think this situation was all that different from then. He might be annoyed, but he wasn't _angry_. Blaise reacted like...like he was actually worried. Scared, even.

The thought was somewhat unnerving. He'd said he wasn't going to play this game, but it seemed like he was doing it anyway.

“It's fine,” he finally said, and noted with interest and quite a bit of wariness that Blaise's posture relaxed at his words, and his magic began moving once again. So he _had_ been making the boy uncomfortable. “I do hope it won't happen again.”

“No,” Blaise immediately replied, and although his tone was back to being lazy and somewhat mocking, his shoulders were still slightly hunched, his magic's movement stilted and somewhat awkward. “It won't.”

And didn't that sound ominous.

Harry decided he neither wanted nor really knew how to deal with the situation, so he merely nodded and then turned back to his breakfast. He missed the calculating looks thrown his way by the rest of the Slytherins in their group; some filled with curiosity, some with wariness, and all with some degree of anticipation.

In front of them, Dumbledore suddenly stood and called their attention.

“Good morning, students! Welcome back! Now that most of you are here, I have an announcement to make. As you are all aware, last term Professor Snape generously volunteered as your temporary Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher after the unfortunate, sudden departure of Professor Quirrell. For this term, we warmly welcome back a past member of the Hogwarts faculty. Please, welcome Professor Slughorn!”

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I'm sorry for taking so long on this upload! College is hard, kids, don't let anyone tell you differently (but fun, so much fun).
> 
> I made a drawing for this chapter, which I hope you guys like! I've been experimenting with the new tablet I bought, and trying to get used to the art software I'm using instead of PS. It's a work in progress, but with more practice I hope to get better; I apologize for wonky proportions and lighting! I might make more for future chapters, maybe experiment with styles. As always, all comments, questions and criticisms are welcome! If you guys have any recommendations for any art software you particularly like I'd love to hear about them, too!
> 
> A reminder that you guys are all wonderful and so, so lovely, and that your comments always make me smile! I hope you keep enjoying this story.  
> Thank you so very much for reading!


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